


Bound

by ColdReign



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Bipolar Ian Gallagher, Boys Kissing, Bugs & Insects, Canon-Typical Behavior, Fate & Destiny, GW2020, Grooming, Homophobic Language, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Abortion, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Protective Ian Gallagher, Protective Mickey Milkovich, Recreational Drug Use, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Work, Terry Milkovich's A+ Parenting, Threats of Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:21:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 129,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25511260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColdReign/pseuds/ColdReign
Summary: Summary: The rom-coms tell you that finding your soulmate is the hard part. For Mickey and Ian, bonded by accident while they're still teens and still stuck in Southside, that is the only part that’s been easy. A re-telling of the early part of their romance where everything’s the same, but soulmates exist.“Boyfriend?”“Yeah. Aren’t you?”“I don’t know if I’m your fucking boyfriend.”“Ran over here at midnight because I had a bad day, but ok. Not my fucking boyfriend.”“I’m your soulmate, man. Why do I have to be your boyfriend, too?”Originally created as a one-shot for Gallavich Week. Day Seven: SoulmatesContent Warning: Expect canon-typical violence and language. I will tag and put up content warnings as they become necessary.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 374
Kudos: 476
Collections: Gallavich Week 2020





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I haven’t read any soulmates fanfic in this fandom, I don’t think. However, I found Gallavich via another fandom where superpowers are standard, and the Superstar Must-read Fanfic is a soulmates AU that has next-level worldbuilding. The fandom is The Flash. The story is An All Too Jagged Snowflake by Redhead. It’s a 50 chapter extravaganza that I want to mention because it has heavily shaped my concept of what a soulmates AU even is. 
> 
> This is my first AU of any kind and I have gone FULL TROPE on this. This isn’t going to be a metaphorical take. I’m still mainly cannon’s bitch, though, so... this is mostly Gallavich. But with soulmates.

**Prologue**

The gun falls on the bed without ceremony. Ian glances up from zipping his pants long enough to take it in. Then he turns and looks at Mickey—Mickey fucking Milkovich, his soulmate—in confusion.

“Thanks?”

Mickey shrugs. He’s already fully dressed, having gotten something resembling a head start. Ian picks up his t-shirt as Mickey learns back against the dresser. He’s not sure what’s going on. He has this weird, foreign rush of something moving through him. Just loud, and fast and screaming for attention. That’s the bond, he realizes with some surprise. What he’s feeling is the bond. He’s feeling Mickey.

It does not feel... good. He can’t track it. The emotions, or the … whatever. Whatever he’s supposed to feel. He can’t pick anything out. He just gets noise.

Ian grabs the gun up off the bed, and weighs it in his hand. It had felt super fucking important an hour ago. Now, it’s like a souvenir. People did that, right? Picked up stones and shit to commemorate the moment their bond was activated. This was his souvenir. A handgun that belongs to his boss/boyfriend.

He hears the distinct click of a lighter and turns to see Mickey inhaling from a cigarette with remarkable intensity.

He should try to read the feelings. He didn’t really feel anything before—or he didn't realize what it was. He averts his gaze to the gun again. He feels…

Sick.

“Motherfucking Aaron Bond,” Mickey mutters, taking another fitful drag. “You kidding me?”

“You weren’t expecting that?”

“No, I wasn’t fucking expecting that,” Mickey spits out. “Were you?”

“Well. Yeah.”

Aaron Bond. Who even talks like that anymore? Like they were in the 1930s or something.

“Great. Aaron Bond with a full-blown homo. Fucking awesome.”

Ian tucks the gun into his waistband. “Kind of a shitty way to talk to your soulmate.”

“You're not my soulmate,” Mickey looks at him with disgust and Ian feels a lurch in his stomach. Oh, this is fucking weird. Is that him? Is that Mickey? “This didn’t fucking happen. You get that? I can’t have an Aaron Bond. My dad will kill me himself.”

“I don’t think you get a choice.”

“Yeah? Well let’s test that. Stay the fuck away from me, I’ll stay away from you.”

“What?”

“We’re not doing this.” Mickey gestures wildly with the cigarette. “We’re not gonna be fucking boyfriend and girlfriend. Thanks for the fuck, but I’m good. We’re done here. This is done.” 


	2. Aaron Bond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian's bond comes with a high price tag and he's looking for solutions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm expanding my one-shot from Gallavich Week into a full-blown multi-chapter fic. This used to be a one-shot and now it's chapter one. If you read the one-shot, there isn't much in the way of new plot here. There is more information about the world we're dealing with. 
> 
> There is also a prologue now.

“What’s that?” 

Ian twists his torso, his tank only to the middle of his chest, to see what Mandy’s talking about. She’s looking at his hip and pointing. He pulls his shirt down, hurriedly. 

“Nothing.”

“That’s a mark.” 

“Mandy.” 

“That’s your super-secret soulmark!” 

Jesus does Ian not have time for this. It’s 4:00 and it’s already been a long fucking day. He was up at six to get to the Kash & Grab for seven. It’s the height of a Chicago heatwave, so people were in and out all day, bitching at Ian like it was his fault, and then buying them out of Gatorade, beer and ice cream. Mandy had come by when his shift ended at 3:00 and they’d stumbled back to the Gallagher house together, where they’d jumped into the pool, fully clothed, on Ian’s dare. 

That’s where he went fucking wrong. 

He’d let Mandy towel off in the kitchen, while Ian changed. He’d just come down the stairs to grab a fresh shirt from the dryer. Not quickly enough, apparently, because Mandy is lunging for the waistband of his jeans. Ian throws his hands up. “Hey. No!” 

“Are you serious?” She looks at him in amazement. “For real?” 

“It’s nothing.” He busies himself, tucking his fresh shirt into his jeans and then tightening his belt for good measure. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._ This is going to be a thing now. 

“You’re so fucking secretive!” 

“It’s personal.” 

“It’s NOT personal. Look.” She lifts up her arm, showing off her inner bicep, where her mark was prominently displayed. “Soulmark.” 

Ian takes a step back, his heart pounding in his chest. “Mine isn’t exactly out in the open like that.” 

“Oh, true. Ian Gallagher, so shy about his body, can’t let anyone see his hip. Meanwhile, if you could keep your fucking shirt on for five minutes—” 

“Mandy. Look. It’s just important, ok? I don’t want anyone to see it.” 

“Why? Is it weird?” 

It wasn’t, really. Mandy’s mark was like a hash mark you’d see counting days off on a prison wall. Ian thought that was weird. His was more of a spiral thing, with a tail. He’d always thought it was kinda pretty. Most people either had straight lines or curvy ones. Sometimes, they were rough. Kevin and V had that going on. Their marks looked serrated. 

No one really knew if that meant anything, but Ian had started to think of his as a whirlpool. He just kept getting sucked further and further out of his depth. 

“Look,” He can tell from the expression on Mandy’s face that she isn’t going to give up easily, so he reaches for the best tool available to him: straight-up begging. “I would never say this if it wasn’t really important. You’re my best friend. But I can’t show you.” 

Mandy looks at him in confusion, then gasps, eyes bulging. “Oh my GOD. Are you bonded? 

Ian flushes. “No!” 

“Do you know who it is, then? Have you seen someone with the mark?” 

“No,” Ian chose his words carefully. “But. If I did—if someone saw it and they knew who it matched with... It’d be… a problem.” 

Mandy—who is his fake girlfriend, after all—gets the implication. Ian can’t risk anyone knowing what his mark is, because if there’s some other guy around with the same mark, people will figure out that Ian’s gay. Which certainly would be a problem. 

A bigger problem is that he is 99% sure Mandy would recognize it. It’s bad enough she knows where it is. 

“Ok, but Ian,” Mandy looks hurt. “You know I’m not going to out you.” 

“I know,” fuck, fuck, fuck! “I just… I feel safer keeping it secret.” 

“Even from me.” 

He winces. “Maybe not secret. More like need-to-know?” 

She laughs at that, thank Christ. Mandy’s emotional in a way Ian is intimately familiar with, expressing it mostly as anger. He knows, underneath the sarcasm and rage, that she just wants to feel important to him. Which she is. Maybe more than she will ever know, honestly. He tries out a smile, though it feels weak and cloying. 

“I know it’s weird. I’m being weird. I just… I promise, if I was ever going to show to anyone, it’d be you.” 

That is at least true and she looks pleased to hear it. So pleased that she stumbles forward and winds her long arms around his neck, giving him her signature tight BFF squeeze. 

“Ok, deal,” she presses a smacking kiss to the underside of his chin. “I’ll hold you to that.” 

They’re standing there like that, Mandy draped all over him, Ian’s hands resting on her hips when the backdoor flies open and Fiona struggles in burdened by groceries and a distraught Debbie. She stops dead when she sees them, eyebrows raised.

“Am I interrupting anything?” 

“Hey,” Mandy doesn’t turn around, but rolls her eyes at Ian. Then she tosses a come-hither look over her shoulder as his brother ambles in behind his sisters. “Hey, Lip.”

Mandy has one major downfall as a beard: she’s fucking obvious when she has a crush. 

“Hey,” Lip barely nods in her direction. “Ian, you working tonight?” 

“Uh, no. Just got off.” 

“Might need your help with something.” 

Shit. Fuck. Shit. 

“Ah, I was just about to walk Mandy home.”

“Ok, well how long is that going to take?” 

Mandy grabs Ian’s hand, stepping closer to him, while giving Lip a look that would make sailors blush. “I don’t know. Maybe we can cut a deal. What’ll you give me to release him?” 

The flirting doesn’t register with Lip—or rather, Lip refuses to register the flirting. Instead, he turns his attention back to Ian. “Around eight?” 

“Ah, maybe. I’ll text you.” 

“Can’t just give me a yes or no now?” 

Fuck. Shit. Fuck. 

“I’ll text you.” He tries to convey a message to Lip through eye contact, but he knows it isn’t going to be of any use at all. Lip already knows something is up. He and Ian have gone at it over his reluctance to share a good half dozen times. And it’s pointless, because Ian isn’t going to confess anything, and Lip’s similarly not going to cut him any slack. So. Impasse. 

“Ok,” Lip says, in a tone that lets Ian know it’s extremely not ok, “I’ll wait for your text.” 

“What’s going on with you guys?” Mandy asks, sotto voce, as Lip vaults up the stairs and out of sight. Ian can at least be grateful for the change in topic.

“He’s pissed at me. West Point stuff.” 

His fake-girlfriend accepts this and squeezes his hands. “Ok. I’m gonna pee and then we can go.” 

And Mandy runs UP the stairs, where Lip has just vanished, rather than ducking into the tiny bathroom that is two feet away. Fiona watches her go, then turns her serious big-sister eyes on him. 

“You know your girlfriend has a thing for your brother, right?” 

“It’s cool, Fiona. I promise.” He pulls one of the grocery bags over to his side of the counter to help her unpack. “Oh, great. You got Eggos. Valuepak!” 

“Uh huh.” Fiona gives him a look, letting him know he’s not fooling anyone. “Just be careful.” 

“I am,” Ian assures her. 

He’s reasonably sure he IS fooling most people. Whatever Fiona thinks she’s on to, it’s all just part of the smokescreen. 

***

Twenty minutes later, he and Mandy are walking through the streets of the neighbourhood, Ian swinging their hands dorkily in a way that Mandy is delighted with. She seems to enjoy being his fake girlfriend, honestly. He figures she likes the attention and she maybe gets a little bit of a different kind of cred for the upright army-bound boyfriend. He likes it a little bit, too. Likes Mandy. Likes having a friend where things at least appear to be simple. Definitely likes that it minimizes awkward flirting from girls who aren’t Mandy. Doesn’t really mind the casual PDA, either. It’s like practice for some distant future where he doesn’t have to worry about getting beaten up over who he wants to hold hands with. 

“So what are you up to tonight?” she asks, as she slides his arm up and over her shoulders, twining her fingers through his. 

“I don’t know. I said I’d help Mrs. Gravely with her garden. Just watering, but I don’t know how long it’ll take.” 

“Not three hours.” 

“Maybe not.” 

“Just trying to piss Lip off?” 

No. 

“Lip doesn't need anyone’s help getting pissed off right now. He’s all wound up over a bunch of shit. I can’t even keep track.” 

Mandy nudges his hip with hers.

“You look hot.” 

“Literally or figuratively?” 

“Whatever the fuck that means. Both, I guess. You meeting someone?” 

Fuck. 

“Not… really.” This is the OTHER problem with Mandy as a beard. Everyone else, he can tell them he’s meeting Mandy. Mandy, he just... Vanishes. And she’s aware. And figures she’s earned the right to know what he’s up to. “Maybe a little.” 

“New guy?” 

“Um. Sorta the guy from last winter.” 

“I thought he broke your heart and stuff.” 

“He didn’t break my heart. We just stopped hooking up.” 

“Well, he disappeared and you were distracted and moody for weeks, is all I know.” 

Distracted and moody. He should win an Oscar if he was selling distracted and moody when he was actually desperate, lovesick and half out of his mind. “We’re talking. That’s all. Probably won’t go anywhere.” 

“So that guy saw your soulmark.” 

Fuck. Again.

“I mean. I don’t want to bore you with mechanics, Mandy, but we weren’t exactly hanging out naked a lot. Just fucking.” 

“You fuck with your clothes on?”

“Sometimes.” He revels in the brief opportunity to tell the truth. “Especially when you don’t have any place to go.” 

Mandy seems to consider that, but when she speaks it’s clear she’s fixed on a topic. “You ever think about looking for your match? On the apps, or whatever?” 

“No.” Ian is emphatic. “You?” 

“Nope. Don’t have a fucking smartphone, to start.” 

“I think I want to be, like, ten years older. At least. It just seems like a lot of bullshit to deal with right now.” 

“The bullshit of having someone love you, and only you, for the rest of your life? Someone you connect with on the deepest possible level who literally feels what you feel and wants you with their whole entire being? That bullshit?” 

“No,” Ian exhales. “The bullshit of having someone you don’t even know, like, in your head and part of every single decision you make, forever. Whether you like each other or not, whether you’re good for each other or not. Just stuck together.” 

“Wow, Ian. I didn't know you were such a romantic.” 

“Product of a bad match. No, I take that back. My brothers and sisters are the product of a bad match. I’m a product of a bad match being fucking psychotic to each other.”

“I mean,” Mandy, unlike most people he knows, never backs off at the mention of Ian’s childhood baggage. “Shitty people have soulmates, too. You don’t find that comforting?” 

“No,” Ian can feel the rant building inside him. “Soulmates are really fucked up if you think about it. It’s so weird that we just had this person we’re attached to, whether we like it or not. And how many people do you know, who are bonded and happy? Because other than Kevin and V, I’m drawing a blank. And what if your soulmate makes your life worse? I mean, we all have shit to handle. You think my match is going to come from some pristine background with no drama? Zero chance. We’re just gonna double our problems and probably make each other miserable, just like everyone else does. It’s really fucking weird when you think about it.” 

“Jesus. Have you been trolling those creepy bond-denier subreddits? That was dark.” 

Right. Yeah. He sighs and stops, turning Mandy to face him. “YOUR soulmate is going to be sweet, and grounded and probably a little nerdy. And he’s going to be knocked out by you. He’s going to worship the ground you walk on. Promise.” 

“That was some hard turnaround, there, buddy.” Mandy grins, though. She might even preen a little. “You really think so?” 

“Yeah. I think you’ll get a good guy and he’ll treat you like a princess.” 

“I can maybe deal with that.” She twists around and they start walking again, turning down Trumbull, with only a few more blocks to Mandy’s house. “Why do you think it’s going to be so fucking dark for you?” 

He smirks and holds out his hand. “Ian Gallagher. Nice to meet you.” 

“Oh, come on. Your guy is probably going to be exactly the same. Some Northside nerd who will think you’re hot as fuck.” 

“Maybe I’ll luck out. Maybe he’s not even from Chicago. Maybe he’ll be from someplace super exotic. Like Evanston.” 

“You are so cynical I’m starting to think you don’t even deserve a soulmate. Oh, shit,” Mandy mutters, as her house comes in view. “My brothers are back.” 

Mandy’s brothers, every one of them, went on some kind of run today. Ian didn’t bother to ask many questions. And looking up, he sees Mandy is right. Mickey Milkovich is sitting on the front porch, squinting against the sun and smoking a cigarette. He looks pissed, but that’s not exactly out of character. 

“Hey, Loser!” Mandy hollers as they approach. “Thought you weren’t gonna be back ‘til tonight?” 

Mickey shrugs and doesn’t move from his spot on the porch. As they approach Ian can see he’s a mess. Covered in grime, sweaty as fuck. There are deep rings around the neck and pits of his t-shirt. He’s got half a beer that he’s nursing and looks tired and strung out. “Kinda went sideways. Anyway, it’s ok. We got what we needed. We just didn’t make it to the third pick up.” 

Ian doesn’t want to know any of this, so he casually studies the Milkovich lawn. Which is a fucking mess.

“Dad know?” 

“Yeah. Took a strip off Iggy. Guess it’s his turn.” 

Mandy bites her lip, eying the door. “Should I say gone?” 

Mickey shrugs. “If you get dinner on the table in half an hour, you’ll be the golden child. Rare fucking opportunity.” 

“Ugh.” She smirks at Ian. “You wanna stay for dinner?” 

“Ah. Hell no. Gotta do Mrs. Gravely’s lawn, remember?” 

“Yeah?” Mickey asks, which is random interest, no matter how you look at it. “How long that gonna take you?” 

He shrugs. “Half an hour, maybe.” 

“Just in time for dinner.” 

“If I get started now,” Mandy murmurs. She turns and gives Ian a quick kiss on the cheek. “If it’s this hot tomorrow, I want pool access!” she calls back, running up the stairs.

“You always have pool access!” 

The door slams behind her and if Mandy has any retort, it’s lost. Ian stares after her a minute. Breathes. Then he allows himself to look at Mickey. 

Mickey’s eyes, his fucking gorgeous eyes, are already fixed on him. Deep fatigue is coming off him in waves. 

“You ok?” 

“Will be.” 

“I’m heading to Mrs. Gravely’s now.” 

“Yeah,” Mickey hefts himself up off the stoop. “I’m gonna grab a shower. I fucking stink.” 

Ian smiles slightly. “I like the way you smell.” 

“You’re a fucking lunatic, you know that?” 

“So you keep telling me.” 

Ian looks off down the street. There’s a car turning two blocks down. A few people are on their front lawns, chatting with neighbours. He looks back at Mickey, one eye closed against the glare of the sun. 

“Missed you today.” 

Mickey drains his beer, belches spectacularly and turns into the house. “Fucking pussy.” 

Ian starts off down the street towards the Gravely house. He can’t stop smiling. 

***

Ian sometimes wonders how many soulmates throughout history found each other the way he and Mickey did: thrashing around on a bed, fighting over a tire iron. 

Ok, so maybe not exactly that, but that kind of thing—fighting, being in conflict. Mickey had just gotten the upper hand when his wrist had grazed Ian’s exposed ribcage and everything in Ian’s entire body had lit up. Mickey, dumbstruck, had dropped the tire iron. They’d had sex immediately. No conversation, not even an “Oh my God, it’s you!” They’d just torn each other’s clothes off. Mickey’s dad had been in the next room. 

So yeah. Right from the start, they didn’t make good decisions. 

Afterwards, Mickey had practically thrown Ian out. Stunned, Ian hadn’t known what to do with himself. He’d never heard of just refusing to be someone’s soulmate. Walking home he’d tried to tell himself he didn’t care. He barely knew Mickey. If anything, he had actually kinda hated him. Did he want to be bound to a thug and a bully? No. So fuck him. Fuck him and his “Aaron Bond” bullshit. 

But he could already feel the gaping hole inside him. The crushing feeling of loss. That was it. That was his soulmate. Gone already. 

He’d pushed it down as far as it would go and headed home, tumbling into the middle of another family calamity involving a casket and several pounds of rotting meat. Then he'd headed back to the Kash & Grab. He’d figured he'd go, he’d see Kash. Kash would be happy about the gun. Relieved. Ian could be his hero. That had been the plan. Instead, he’d gotten slapped across the face by Linda for fucking her husband. Linda’s disgusted “You could do better” hit him in a way he didn’t see coming. Just for a second, it took his breath away. 

But he’d tried to shake that off, too. He tried to ignore the tight fist forming in his stomach, and the hot, almost burning sensation at the back of his neck. 

When he got a second alone, away from the family chaos, the pain overtook him. It was searing. He’d felt blistering shame. You could do better. He couldn’t even hang on to his soulmate. Correction: He couldn’t even hang on to his soulmate for more than 15 minutes. He was stunned by how much that hurt. How physical it felt. The ache of it. Those first nights, he did his best to cry himself to sleep in silence, hiding this ultimate humiliation from the rest of his family. 

Three whole days came and went before Ian saw Mickey again. But when he did, he realized that there were limits to his soulmate’s resistance. He’d come into the Kash & Grab, eyes wide, hands twitching, barely able to speak. Ian had locked the door and Mickey had grabbed for his sleeve the second they were alone. They had stared at each other, as Mickey slid his hand down Ian’s arm, and finally grazed the back of his hand. The relief Ian felt was instant. Like cool water poured over a fever. He’d managed to pull Mickey into the back before they had fallen into each other. Just holding each other, pressing their bodies together, feeling their hearts beat. Together. 

That was the first time he had really, distinctly, felt Mickey and knew what it was. He didn’t have to reach for it. He was just reading him. They must have been experiencing each other pretty intensely in Mickey’s bedroom, but it was a mess in his head. Just so much desire and hunger and need. But now, Ian could feel Mickey’s regret. His relief. But mostly, he felt Mickey’s fear. His sharp, throat-tightening, stomach clenching terror. His own hurt dissolved in the face of it. 

They’d been together ever since. No one knew about it. Not Mandy, not Lip, just fucking no one. The only person Ian had ever considered telling was Kash, but he ultimately couldn’t risk it—and then Mickey ended up shot and in juvie, which was at least on the scale of worst possible outcomes for that whole situation. He still wasn't sure he’d done the right thing. 

But he was sure he’d done what Mickey wanted him to do, and it was really hard for Ian not to do what Mickey wanted. The bond was powerful that way. It was beyond empathy. When you read, you could tell just how strong the feelings were. They were distinct from you, but you couldn’t ignore the information. Ian felt all of how much being in a so-called “Aaron Bond“ threatened Mickey. But it still sucked to let Mickey take the fall. 

Plus, they were going to be separated less than a month after bonding. It was 100% possible to be away from your soulmate. Like, people lived apart. People joined the armed forces. And people went to jail. But it wasn’t exactly easy, and it definitely wasn’t recommended when the bond was new, or when the bondmates were young. 

Maybe there would have been some coping strategy for them if they’d been able to tell anyone when Mickey went inside. But they couldn’t risk it, so Instead Ian had to rely on Google and old Reddit threads. The problem, everyone said, was that a bond could have addictive properties, and that was particularly true for bonded teenagers. The surge of emotions, and hormones, that came with being with a bondmate were so intense that the lack of them quickly became difficult to cope with. Ian also read that a major factor in Bond Separation Malaise was anxiety. Your ability to feel your mate required contact. Not actual physical touch, but you needed to be with them. Any kind of contact could help, though. It was normal to feel uneasy when you didn’t hear from your soulmate, didn’t know how they were. That could mount into panic over enough time. 

Ian could already feel the truth of the addiction metaphor. He would nearly swoon with the rush of good feelings that came with Mickey entering the store. And sure enough, the first week Mickey was locked up was torture. Ian had felt like he was coming out of his skin. In the grips of what felt like a bad virus, Ian had marvelled that Frank and Monica spent so much time apart. He couldn’t imagine choosing this. Maybe that was why they both relied so heavily on recreational substances.

He’d actually broken out in a sweat on day five, and ended up spending it in bed, convinced this might actually kill him. His head hurt, his chest was tight, and his whole body felt too heavy to move. But by morning, it had started to mellow out a little. Like a fever breaking—or maybe like coming out of the DTs. 

Reddit said it helped if you could have some contact, so Ian visited Mickey as soon as he was allowed. They couldn’t touch, but even seeing each other through the glass made a difference. Reading each other and knowing they were still connected was incredibly soothing. Ian would even feel a little high when he left, sometimes. He still had an emptiness that was uncomfortable, but survivable. He could get by. 

When it got hard for Mickey inside, he’d find a way to call. He couldn’t say much. He was usually in a state by the time he got Ian on the phone. Mickey would close his eyes and Ian would talk to him. Tell him he was ok and not to worry. Then he’d just talk about nothing—TV shows, ROTC, stupid shit at school—until he felt Mickey start to relax. With nothing else available to them, they made it work. It gave Ian some hope that they’d be able to keep things on the down-low successfully when Mickey got out. 

The thing was, it was much harder to maintain that distance when you weren’t forced to. They’d spent Mickey’s first night out in the dugouts at a local baseball diamond, and almost immediately all attempts at moderation flew out the window. Ian offered to get Mickey a job at the Kash & Grab. Mickey had said yes. So rather than keep their distance, they were going to be coworkers. 

Unforgivably stupid? Maybe. But Ian is having the best summer of his life. Finally, he can spend time with Mickey. Finally, he is starting to feel like the bond is more a gift than a curse. It was still difficult. When something separated them for more than a couple of days—almost always Mickey’s father—they’d come back together like strung-out junkies. It was fucking unnatural, Ian told himself. That was why they were like this. In the regular course of events, Mickey and Ian would see each other all the time and would experience being together as something pleasant. Comforting. Soulmates aren’t supposed to hide. They aren’t supposed to be kept apart. 

In health class, they always told them that, if they found their mate by seeing a matched mark, they should be very careful about deciding to activate the bond. It was generally considered a bad idea to activate as teenagers. Too much change, too many hormones, and just way too many feelings and issues to navigate when you were still growing up. Teen soulmates were a popular trope on TV, but the stories were usually super fucking dramatic. Which, he guessed, he and Mickey were, too. 

The teachers went about it the wrong way, Ian had only realized once he was irrevocably bound. They talked about waiting like the whole issue was your development—you weren’t grown up enough, you weren’t “ready”. That doesn’t mean shit to kids who haven’t actually bonded yet. How were you supposed to know you were ready? Most teenagers, especially in Southside, felt ready to have someone give a fuck about them. 

Now that Ian had some experience with a bond, though, he got it. He felt equipped to advise other 16-year-olds about the stuff they don’t lay out for you. Most people, especially kids, see the bond as something you GET. Their soulmate is a concept, not a person, and they imagine it as something that will give them everything they want. The thing they don’t prepare you for is the fact that, when you find your soulmate, all you want to do is give. Once you bond, it’s never just about you again. You’re responsible for someone else and that is hell to piece together when you both have parents and school and you haven’t even started to figure your adult life out. Ian had such a clear cut path set out for himself. Join the army. Preferably as an officer. Get out of Southside and Chicago. See the world. Protect the homeland. 

Ian had abandoned that idea on Day Six of Mickey being locked up. Nope. Never going through this again. He was going to have to find something new to do with his life. The army was out of the question. 

Suddenly, and entirely because he’s bonded, Ian has no idea what he wants to do with his life. That’s the shit they should tell you. Your whole identity will change. Your whole outlook will alter. You will not be who you were before and there is no going back. So if you CAN pick your moment, pick one where you won’t feel like someone just lifted you up and tossed you 50 miles out to sea without a lifejacket. And maybe with a knapsack full of rocks. 

That said. 

Fuck does Ian love Mickey. He knows that’s what is supposed to happen, but he still feels like he’s discovered something brand new. It didn’t seem humanly possible that everyone felt like this about their soulmate. How did they get anything done? Ian loves everything about Mickey. His skin and his hair and his taste and his smell. His body is perfect, his mouth is perfect, his eyes are so fucking beautiful… And Mickey loved him back so hard. It was exactly how Ian wanted to be loved. Passionate and whole-hearted. Mickey was fierce and protective. And fun. They had so much fun together. Ian felt crippling gratitude that he’d found him. The best part of his week was the time he and Mickey managed to get alone. If they were really alone and honestly safe—something that rarely happened—if they could spend time pouring over each other, then Mickey would indulge Ian as he dragged his fingers over Mickey’s arms, his jaw, his ears. He’d laugh at him, but he’d let Ian gaze and say ridiculous things about the scar on Mickey’s right elbow, and the mole on his left shoulder. 

Having a soulmate had ended the life Ian thought he was going to have, and he wouldn’t give it up for anything. 

Well. Almost anything. 

Ian sets up the sprinklers in Mrs. Gravely’s backyard after he’s finished turning the hose over her flower beds. He’d let her know he was there, and she’d thanked him, slipping him ten whole dollars, and had headed back into the living room to watch the news, then Wheel of Fortune, then Jeopardy. Ian would be gone by the time she got back out of her chair. He likes helping her out, and it’s easy enough, but really the big thing about Mrs. Gravely is her garden shed. It’s like a tiny garage. Workbench down one side. Old bikes and a push lawnmower lined up on the other side. Smells like mildew and mothballs. The windows are caked with dirt and no one ever comes in there. 

He checks the time and leans back against the wall of the shed. It’s humid and he’s starting to drip with sweat. There are cicadas cutting through the early evening air, competing with the back and forth of the sprinkler. It’s peaceful here. Just a little. 

He hears violent swearing outside and glances up just in time to see Mickey, having not entirely avoided the sprinkler’s trajectory, slipping through the door. And he can’t help it. He can never fucking help it. He smiles as if his heart is about to burst out of his chest.

“Mickey.” 

Ian loves saying his name. Loves just rolling the syllables around his mouth. Mickey is shaking off the water, but the second Ian speaks he looks up and smiles just the way Ian is. Like God is on his side. Like the heavens have just opened. 

“C’mere.” 

Ian goes. Pushes himself off the wall and crashes his body into Mickey’s. And now they’re kissing like Mickey is home from war. Ian threading his fingers through Mickey’s hair, mouth opening, his tongue urging Mickey closer. His whole body trying to absorb him, just swallow him whole. It starts out frantic but gradually slows. Slows in the best way, where they breathe into each other and brush against each other’s skin. Where every single molecule in Ian’s body is buzzing, and he feels drunk and happy and like he could just fucking drown standing here, kissing Mickey Milkovich. Just forget about oxygen and food and daylight, because all he needs is Mickey, with his hands up the back of his shirt, and his warm mouth pressed to his. 

“Christ,” Mickey breathes. “How did I get a soulmate this fucking hot?” 

“Everyone thinks their soulmate is hot,” Ian mumbles against Mickey’s mouth. 

“But mine is objectively hot,” Mickey cannot help but fucking argue, even as Ian bites his way along his jaw. “I promise you, this is not just my opinion.” 

“Mmm. You taking a survey?” 

“I got eyes, man. I see how people look at you.” 

Ian does not care about how other people look at Mickey. Ian is struggling to remind himself that he cares about anything other than kissing every single inch of his soulmate’s neck. Mickey really is the worst fucking drug. 

But. 

“Mickey,” he’s speaking against Mickey’s jaw, laying sucking kisses even as he tries to stop what they’re doing. “We need to talk.” 

“Fuck talking. You need to get on me.” 

In the dank humidity of a garden shed in the middle of a Chicago heat wave, Ian shivers. 

“I didn’t bring anything.” 

He hadn’t. Because they had to talk. And because he knows himself. He particularly knows himself around Mickey. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Mickey’s disbelief is called for. This is the closest Ian has ever come to turning down sex. It still feels pretty touch and go. 

“We need to talk.” 

“Ugh,” Mickey pushes Ian away from him, half-heartedly. “What is it, Drama Queen? Are you fucking breaking up with me?” 

Ian knows that’s a joke, but his stomach clenches at the idea. He already feels a painful lack of Mickey, just standing half a foot apart, even with Mickey’s hands on his shoulders, so he reaches out and puts a hand on his soulmate’s hip. Over their mark. Mickey’s eyes darken and go a little soft at that. It’s intimate. And Mickey likes intimate. 

“Your sister saw my mark.” 

“Hmm?” It takes a moment for Mickey to fully comprehend that, Ian can tell. He can feel the muddy lust, pulling only slightly harder than his own. “Wait. What?” 

“She didn’t SEE it, see it. She just… she saw the top, over my jeans. She knows where it is.” 

And there it is. Mickey’s panic floods Ian. Grabs his heart and squeezes hard. 

“Did she say anything?” 

“She said a lot of things. But none of them were ‘holy fuck, my brother’s your soulmate.’” 

“Fuck,” Mickey’s mouth has gone dry. “Fuck.” 

This is the worst thing. This is the thing Ian hates about being bonded. This is what fuels his rants. He loves Mickey, but he hates feeling this clean, hot fear that lives inside him. He hates knowing it’s because of him. Them. 

“I told her I didn't want anyone to see it.” 

“Ian, you know her. She’s gonna be obsessed with seeing your mark now.” 

Probably. But she was his bond-sister and the only person in Mickey’s entire family who would be happy with that relationship. He really wouldn’t mind Mandy knowing, honestly. But it wasn’t his call. 

“She seemed ok. And look, worst case… I think she’ll get it. I mean, if Mandy doesn’t get why we’re sneaking around, who’s going to?” 

Mickey presses his lips together. “No one can know, Ian.” 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

“I know,” he feels desperately sad. So fucking stupid, too. He should pay more attention. Take more care. He reaches out for Mickey and pulls him into his body. Foreheads pressed together, hands framing his face. His eyes are closed and he whispers, “I’ll handle it. I will.” 

Mickey is breathing hard, the adrenaline still surging inside him. “Just. It doesn’t have to be on purpose. If my dad finds out, we’re fucked.” 

“I know. I know.” God, does he know. Ian shifts, sliding against Mickey so he can nuzzle him, press their temples together. He feels so good like this. So good next to Mickey. Like everything he ever wanted—more than he even imagined—is right in front of him. The neighbourhood thug, the kid everyone was scared of, melting against him. He’d do anything for him. 

Anything. 

“We could break the bond.” He says it quietly like he can protect them both from what he’s suggesting if he only barely says it out loud. Only just lets Mickey hear him. But no fucking luck on that one, because Mickey immediately wrenches away from him like he’s just been electrocuted. 

“WHAT?” his eyes are wide. “What the FUCK, Ian. Why are you talking about that crazy voodoo shit?” 

“It’s not VOODOO,” Ian tires, but it’s lame. The first “successful” bond severance had happened nearly two years ago. They had only just started to roll it out to the masses. It was controversial and being sold to the rich and famous. But it was happening. “It’s science.”

“The fuck it is!” 

“I know it’s new, but it’s been done. Like people have done it.” 

And if Ian thought the fear was bad, what’s coming through right now is even worse. It’s terror and hurt and confusion all at once. Total and complete fucking heartbreak. Ian reaches for him, suddenly desperate. 

“Mickey—” 

“Don’t touch me!” 

“Mickey. I love you.” 

Mickey is holding both hands up in front of him like a shield. “You want to break the bond.” 

“I don’t!” Ian can hear his own fucking heartbreak in his voice and just gives up. He lets it pour out of him. “You can feel me, Mickey. You can feel this. You gotta know I don’t want this!” 

“Then what the fuck are you talking about?” 

“I don’t,” Ian feels strangled, tears suddenly slipping out of his eyes and rolling down his face. “I don’t want to be the reason you’re scared. And I really don’t want to be the reason your dad kills you.” 

“This isn’t a fucking solution!” 

“I just need you to know I’ll do it,” Ian steps forward, and Mickey permits it. Presses his hands against Ian’s chest and it’s so comforting. Ian leans closer. Determined to make Mickey understand. “I’d fucking hate it. It would be like cutting my heart out. But I love you enough…” He pulls in a deep breath. “I love you enough to give you up. If that’s what you need. If that’s the way you can be ok.” 

He’s shaking again. The idea is so intensely painful he can barely say the words. But it’s true. If the choice is Mickey, alive and miserable, or Mickey dead just for being his bondmate, Ian knows his preference. And he will do it. He will do this impossible, awful thing if it will make Mickey safe. 

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Mickey mutters, sagging into Ian. 

“No.” 

“No, you are,” he grinds his head into Ian’s shoulder. “I don’t want to break the bond, Gallagher. I’d rather fucking die than go back.” 

“Don’t say that.” 

“I shouldn't have said my dad would kill me. I don’t know what the fuck he’d do.” 

“You’re scared of it.” 

“I mean, yeah,” Mickey sighs. “He’s a sadistic fucker and he fucking hates queers. And you and me—we are all the way queer.” 

Ian laughs, despite himself. That’s kinda the closes Mickey’s ever come to flat out saying he’s gay. He brings his hand up to clutch at his soulmate’s shoulder, holding their bodies tight against each other. “Definitely.” 

“Dad never found his soulmate,” Mickey takes a careful breath and pulls back so he can look Ian in the eye. “And maybe that makes him meaner, but I think he just doesn’t get it. He doesn’t have any fucking idea what we have.” His eyes search Ian’s face, taking him all in. He must like what he sees because he manages a smile. “You are the best fucking thing in my life, Ian. And yeah, having something this good is terrifying. But it’s not like that is the only thing I feel about you. I’m a lot of other things besides scared.” 

Ian manages a weak smile. “When we’re together, it’s like that’s all I can read. I just get fear or I get… quiet.” 

“Quiet?” 

“Yeah. Like… Like if there’s no fear, there’s nothing.” 

Mickey looks confused by this, then breaks out into one of his blinding, gorgeous smiles. “Don’t you feel…. Can’t you tell how I feel now?” 

Ian closes his eyes, trying to narrow his concentration. His own insides are a mess, but he manages to pick something out. “Like… Angry?” 

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Ok, give me a minute. Just give me …” He exhales. Cups Ian’s cheek and gazes up at him. “Give me a minute.”

They stand there. And a minute slides into two, but Mickey just looks at him. Taking him in, feeling him, dragging his thumb along Ian’s cheekbone. Ian can feel himself settle. Just looking at Mickey, that familiar face, all that soft affection. And then he notices. Mickey’s gone completely quiet. Just like he said. The anger’s gone. So is the fear. Like he’s shut him out. 

“How did you do that?”

Do what?” Mickey asked, placidly. 

“I can’t… I can’t feel you. You’re just gone.” Ian feels a frisson of irritation and smiles. “Ok. Now you’re not.” 

“No I’m fucking not. Why do you think you can’t feel me right now, genius?” 

Ian closes his eyes and lets himself sway a little with Mickey in his arms. The realization washes over him. 

“Because you feel like I do.” 

“Mmm. And how do you feel?” 

Ian grins. His heart is exploding. “Happy. Peaceful. In love” 

“Jesus Christ,” Mickey sputters. “In love.” 

Ian opens his eyes. “I am in love. Come on. If you can’t tell you’re soulmate you’re in love with them—“ 

“No one fucking talks like that!” 

“I do, though. I talk like that.” 

“What the fuck is the point of having a soulmate who can read your emotions if they’re going to make you talk about your feelings all the god damn time? I should report you.” 

The happiness inside Ian surges. And it’s both of them. That overwhelming sensation he gets when he’s with Mickey. It’s the melding of the two of them. The love and the joy, echoing back at each other. “To who?” 

“There’s probably a tribunal somewhere,” Mickey says, absently. “Seriously, this whole conversation is disgusting.” 

“Hmm. But you feel happy. Peaceful.” 

“Fucking stop it.” 

Ian gives up and pulls Mickey flush against him in a close, full-body hug. Mickey tucks his face into Ian’s neck and it feels fucking perfect. 

“Do I make your life better? Does this?”

“Mmm-hmm,” Mickey sounds drunk. “Yes. Definitely.”

“Really?” 

“Fuck,” Mickey leans back to look at him. “I was scared all the time anyway. I live with a homicidal maniac with a hair-trigger temper. What do you think?” 

“I think you should move”. 

Mickey smiles then. “I’ll get there.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Mickey says this with such deep sincerity that it makes Ian lightheaded. “I gotta try and have a life now, right? If we hadn’t bonded, I probably wouldn’t have gotten out of juvie so fast. Fuck, I might already be back in. I actually took the classes kinda seriously when I was in there. Like, tried a bit. Got some credits.” He shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t want to be a fucking dirtbag loser for you. So maybe I’ll try something else. Defy fucking expectations.” 

Ian feels a stupid amount of pride. He doesn’t care if Mickey graduates high school. Has literally never thought about it one way or another. His attachment to him is so intense that the choices Mickey makes feel inconsequential. They matter, but they don’t change how Ian feels. But he is proud, now. And touched. Maybe even hopeful. And of course, Mickey is thinking like this. Just like Ian is dumping his army plans, Mickey’s looking for a way out of his fucking family. 

“You’re right. I’m an idiot.”

“I'm saying.” Mickey brushes a hand over Ian’s hair. “I got a plan. Or the start of one.” 

Ian nods. “So since we bonded, you’re less scared, or—” 

“Oh. Fuck no. It’s worse. Now I gotta be worried about you, too.” Mickey’s fingers graze the top of Ian’s jeans, dipping down just enough to touch his mark. “But I wouldn’t go back for fucking anything.” 

“Me either.” 

“I never fucking wanted it. To bond? It sounded fucking terrible. But then it was you. And…” Mickey frowns. Takes an unsteady breath. “It’s different with you. You make the love songs make sense, you know? My whole life I never got why someone would ever talk about another person like that. I thought it was fucking ridiculous.” 

“But not anymore,” Ian murmurs, surrendering to the desire to kiss Mickey again. 

“No,” Mickey breathes. “Not anymore.” 

They kiss, soft and deep. Like they have all the time in the world. Like they have nothing to do but kiss each other. And Ian knows he has to text Lip and he has to go, he has to keep his brother a little happy and a little off his trail. He knows Mickey will have to go home and deal with Terry’s bad mood. And he knows they will see each other at the Kash & Grab tomorrow, and the day after that, and they have the rest of the summer to do this—to find quiet spaces where they can pour over each other and try to quell that desperate hunger, just a little bit. Just so they can stay sane. 

Winter will be worse, but winter is months away. Anything could happen before then. And he’s 16. He can afford to live in the fucking moment for once. 

“I can’t believe you don’t keep any fucking lube in this place,” Mickey complains against Ian’s mouth. “How many times have we banged here?” 

“I don’t want to have to explain it to Mrs. Gravely.” 

“The fuck she’s coming out here. And learn to hide shit. Damn.” 

Ian smiles. “I’ll fix it for next time. I promise.” He grabs Mickey’s hips and manhandles him over to the workbench, turning him around so he can press him against it. It really is the perfect fucking height and he can feel a strong surge of arousal from Mickey, which fuels his own. He attacks his neck, pulling up the hem of his t-shirt, dragging his hands across Mickeys’ perfect stomach, abdomen, pecs. God, he’s so in love with him. With every god damn part of him. Mickey presses back against him, arching his back and Ian feels the heat surge through him again. No fucking idea who it is that time. 

“Here,” he breaths, holding his hand palm up in front of Mickey. “Spit.” 

Mickey groans and complies. “You fucking owe me for this.” 

“I’ll make it up to you,” he promises, as he goes for Mickey’s belt with his other hand.

“You fucking better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will go up later this week! I hope to post weekly through the fall. 
> 
> Coming up next: **Chapter Two: Dead Rabbit** Mandy's got a problem and it's going to be impossible for Ian to keep it a secret from Mickey.


	3. Dead Rabbit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summer is ending, Grammy Gallagher is dying, and Terry is a terrible, terrible human being.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tags have been updated to reflect the part of cannon this chapter has reached. More explicit warning at the end of the chapter.

Mickey loves the moment of clarity between when he comes, and when Ian does. Just that brief window where he feels warm and relaxed and he can watch Ian. Ian, who sometimes has his eyes closed, but sometimes has them wide and awed. Who usually has his mouth open. Who will sometimes lean forward and bury his face in Mickey’s neck.

He makes noises. Mickey fucking loves that. Whimpers, or growls or just little moans. He can read them, sometimes. Like even without the bond, he’s started to recognize just what kind of good Ian is feeling. 

Mickey’s had sex before. Ian wasn’t the first. He wasn’t even the first dude—though he might as well have been. He’s the only person Mickey’s ever had a continuing thing with. The only person he’s been with enough to have gotten familiar with. And yeah, that’s what having a soulmate does to you. You know everyone’s inner turmoil and shit. But he fucking loves knowing the physical part, too. He knows what the changes in Ian’s breathing mean. He knows when he’s getting close. He knows when he’s right about to go over the edge. 

Ian lifts up his head from Mickey’s shoulder and barely manages to focus his gaze as he picks up the pace. Mickey reaches up and around Ian’s neck and pulls him forward into a sloppy, open mouthed kiss. Ian moans. Thrusts. Comes. Mickey smiles like he fucking won something. 

Jesus fucking Christ, it feels good. He’s flooded with the echo of Ian’s orgasm and has to force himself to keep his eyes open to watch. Because he loves the loopy grin on Ian’s face right after they fuck. He loves how happy he is. It makes him fucking laugh. Fills him up with something he’s only just starting to realize is what most people call “joy.” 

Ian pulls out, then kisses him again. He always wants a kiss the minute they’re done. It’s not really a good kiss—breathless and messy—but Mickey loves that, too. Loves how much Ian wants that contact. 

“Face to face is fucking awesome,” Ian finally manages, letting Mickey’s leg down gently to rest against the workbench. 

“We coulda tried it last week.” 

“What, at work?” 

Mickey shrugs, grinning. 

“You’re fucking impossible.” Ian leans down and pulls out a few wet wipes. He surrendered, finally, to keeping a small cache of items on hand in the garage. “You’re totally freaked out and paranoid about everything until you’re horny, and then suddenly you’re trying to seduce me with your ‘hey, let’s try something new’ shit. You remember Frank walked in 10 minutes later? If I hadn’t been the responsible one and, like, got you off quick, things would have gotten seriously fucked up. You’re welcome, by the way.” 

“Mmm. This was better. Tell me this wasn’t better.” 

“You’re the one who decided we couldn’t fuck at the Kash & Grab anymore. Don’t pretend different.” 

Yeah, he tries not to think about a near-miss they’d had a few weeks ago. They still take too many fucking chances, though. “I should send Mrs. Gravely flowers. I mean, it’d confuse her. But I feel like she deserves them.” 

“Mrs Gravely and Alex Trebeck,” Ian agrees, as he bends to help pull Mickey’s pants back up and over his legs. Mickey lifts himself off the bench a second and Ian dutifully finishes the job. “Because she’s never gonna miss a moment of Jeopardy.” 

Ian smoothes back Mickey’s hair a few times and then presses in for another kiss. Still firm and full of joy. Post-coital Ian isn’t as sleepy as Mickey would expect. He’s usually got some kind of Golden Retriever energy about him. Just keeps coming back for more affection, then maybe pulls back to just bounce back and forth in excitement. They’ve been at this a while. His enthusiasm never dulls. 

Fair enough. Neither does Mickey’s. 

Mickey catches faint trepidation stirring inside Ian as he pulls back. “What?” 

“Are you gonna be at school Monday?” 

He’d missed the first week because of Dear Old Dad. Terry wasn’t super enthusiastic at Mickey’s renewed interest—ok, maybe _entirely_ new interest—in getting out of high school the traditional way. 

“Told you I would.”

“Yeah. But it was a while ago.” 

Mickey doesn’t have the energy or the will to get annoyed. Instead, he feels deep affection well up inside him. “Worried about me?” 

“I’d just… I’d miss you.” 

He’s fucking adorable. Mickey still pretends to hate it, even though he knows Ian can sense the good feelings swirling around inside him. 

“You’re pretty whipped.” 

Ian just grins. “And I gotta get home. They’re gonna start to wonder why this shit takes me so long.” 

“Why don’t you ever just tell them you’re with Mandy? Like, isn’t that the whole point of the fake girlfriend?” 

“Nope,” Ian plucks up a few more wet wipes to deal with the dust that inevitably creates dirt on their skin. “Mandy mostly just keeps me off people’s radar. Plus, Lip knows she’s my fake girlfriend. So.” He leans over and brushes his lips across Mickey’s. “You could come with me.”

“How you gonna explain that?” 

“Ran into you. We work together. You haven’t tried to beat the shit out of me in ages. Why wouldn’t you stop by for a beer and overcooked hotdog?” 

“Don’t press your fucking luck,” Mickey smirks while his stomach twists. This is the weirdest thing about having a soulmate. He knows Ian can tell when he’s nervous or bothered, jealous or angry. And he’ll still fucking pretend something else is going on. Right now, he’s trying not to think about how much he wants to take Ian up on that shit. Just to keep hanging out, more than anything. He can’t really picture showing up as Ian’s boyfriend—not that he’s being asked to. That’s the shit about being in a gay relationship with his _soulmate_ that he’s still trying to wrap his mind around. Fucking around with Ian is no problem. He wants it. It feels incredible. And maybe that’s just the whole soulmate thing, but the longer they’re together, the more Mickey feels gripped with the knowledge that… well?

He’s just fucking gay. 

Like it’s some Occam’s razor shit. He’s spent most of his life trying to write off all these thoughts and feelings as being about 20 different things, but the fact is? He’s fucking gone over Ian in a way he’s never even been in the area code of before. Ian makes his heart pound and his stomach flutter. He never has to work to get turned on with Ian. It seems incredible to him, now, that he ever thought that was fucking normal to struggle to get going even though he’s 17. This face-to-face shit that Ian’s so happy about? Never wanted to do that with any of the chicks he’s been with. And yeah, Ian’s good at this and he knows what Mickey likes at this point—but Mickey also loves looking at him. He likes most things about Ian, but there’s a bunch of shit that is flat up just physical. He likes how it feels, to be with someone bigger than him. Someone who can match his strength. And he’s pretty seriously into the rest of Ian’s anatomy, too. That shit’s all pretty gay. 

The problem is, he can’t picture the rest of it. The relationship stuff. He can’t picture holding Ian’s hand, which is significantly less gay than letting him fuck him—face to face or otherwise. He can’t imagine any PDA, really. Or being out on a date. Or owning a pride flag. That all seems impossible. 

He also hasn’t told Ian he loves him. He tries not to think about it. But if he’s not in love, he doesn’t know what else is happening to him. He just can’t come up with a single scenario where it would make sense to tell Ian that. 

But Ian has said it. _Says_ it. Only when it’s relevant, but still. Ian has numbers on the board. What’s worse, Ian doesn’t seem to need Mickey to say anything back. Doesn’t seem even slightly concerned. It’s an almost unforgivable amount of faith to put in a Milkovich, even when you have a cheat sheet on their emotional life. 

Ian’s looking over at him, eyebrows raised like he’s waiting out Mickey’s intense inner monologue. You know, thank GOD soulmates basically just know your mood. This would be bullshit if Ian could read his thoughts. 

“I’ll see you Monday,” Mickey murmurs, and at a loss to say anything else he pulls Ian into another hot, promising kiss. It’ll have to do. 

***

Ian wanders down the alley behind the Gallagher house, resisting the urge to go full Disney heroine and just spin around with his arms flung out. He is so happy it is making him dumb. His brain is just so satisfied, so wildly incurious about everything that isn’t Mickey Milkovich, that he can barely keep track of basic things like ROTC and the days of the week. Everything he does feels like biding time until he sees Mickey again. 

One thing his brain IS interested in, though, is why it feels this way. He knows that this is happening to him because he’s bonded, but he’s also so convinced by the strength of the bond that it feels superfluous. He loves the closeness he experiences with Mickey, how much understanding they share—but part of him keeps wishing that he wasn’t his soulmate, so that he could just let Mickey know he’d choose him over anyone. It’s a dumb chicken-or-the-egg thing because he realizes the bond allowed him to develop all these feelings—but he worries Mickey thinks that the bond GAVE him the feelings. It certainly gave him something. But what’s grown between them since then, that feels like something _they_ did. And he wants Mickey to understand that. To know how important that is to Ian. 

Except he’s not sure he’s right. It’s hard to untangle all the feelings. It’s also hard not to feel like he’s in the grip of some mystical force. 

Jesus. There are SO many feelings. So many and so much.

He slows down as his family comes into sight. Everyone is right where he left them—sitting out in the backyard, drinking beer and picking at what’s left of the chips and pretzels. Fiona, Kevin and V are set up in a circle of cheap lawn chairs. Only Lip is on his feet, leaning against the van. Ian slips in, staying close to the fence, trying not to draw too much attention. It’s an easy thing because Kev and Lip are in heavy debate mode. The topic isn’t a shock. Lip’s been on a tear lately. 

“Your generation is going to have it easy, man,” Kevin is saying. “That’s what freaks you out. 1000 years ago, hardly anyone even got to MEET their mate. Now everyone just decides they’re ready and puts their marks up online. No one will need to go looking for nothing. Just hit the app store. Instant soulmates.” 

“Yeah,” Lip mutters, lighting a cigarette. “And where’s the romance in that?” 

“Some people will probably still find each other in the wild.” Fiona frowns at Lip. “I mean, that happens.” 

“Yeah,” Kev gestures enthusiastically. “Saw it once at The Alibi. This chick went to squeeze by this guy on her way to the bathroom and BLAM.” Kevin smacks a fist into his palm. “He was on a date. It was awkward as fuck.” 

“Not to mention,” V starts to laugh, a deep throaty chuckle. “She was, like, 10 years older than him. Single mom, three kids, and he’s this frat boy in a backwards cap! I don’t think either of them knew what to make of it.” 

“See, THAT’S what’s fucked up about soulmates,” Lip was right on this, leaning in with obvious fervour. Lip was in love with a girl who wasn’t his match, and she was using that as an excuse to blow him off. As far as Ian was concerned, Karen not being Lip’s match was proof of a benevolent God. But Lip did not agree and debunking the value of soulmates was his new big thing. “You get no fucking choice. If I went on the apps to find mine, it would be so that I could steer clear.” 

V clicks her tongue. “Aw, Lip. I love you, honey, but you have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“I know it’s fucking crazy! Look at Frank and Monica. You think that was a good idea? You think this soulmates shit is some well-thought-out plan by the universe? Cause as a child of union, I got some fucking questions.” 

“You just don’t understand what soulmates _are_ ,” V sounds exasperated, though lovingly, and Ian watches with interest. V and Kevin were the only people he knew in any real way who were bonded and seemed happy. He wasn’t going to ask questions, particularly when he could let Lip do that for him, but he was curious. It did seem impossible to imagine him and Mickey living some version of their life. But they were working towards something, right? Getting out of school and shit. That was one of the things he had trouble wrapping his mind around. He was 16. Soulmates were for life. 

“Everyone is being brought up in this country thinking of a soulmate as a solution to a problem. Who am I gonna spend my life with? I could go out there, look around, and find someone I like and build something—or I could hold out for the person appointed by God and marry THEM. Have kids with THEM. That is ALL wrong.” 

“Wait. Then what the fuck are we arguing about?” 

V leans forward. “A soulmate is a challenge we’re all given. It’s a puzzle to solve. It’s not the key to happiness. It’s not a Get Out of Misery Free card. It’s not _'here’s a woman for you to clean your house, do your laundry and cook your meals,'_ either. It’s nothing but a GIANT test from the universe, gift-wrapped and set out on your kitchen table. And it says ‘Dear Glorious Soul Who is Beloved by God: Here is everything you need to build a deep and meaningful connection with another human being that will enrich your life.’ And you have to figure it out from there.” 

Ian is a little spellbound, but Lip just snorts. “Do you ever think that’s just a story we tell ourselves, though? I mean, ok. We all these fucking marks on our skin. That’s a given. And like you said, 1000 years ago, hardly anyone found their match. Maybe this is all just shit we made up over time. Like a myth that everyone started to believe and now we just convince ourselves that it means something!” 

Ian can’t help but smirk. “And maybe we all live in a drop of water on some guy’s rose bush right?” 

Lip twists around to look at him. “I’m serious. What quantitative proof do we have that soulmates exist? Sure, people have measured oxytocin and dopamine levels in the blood and everything, but most of the supposed proof of soulmates relies on first-person accounts of what their _feelings_ are. That is profoundly unscientific. How do we know we didn’t just all make this up to explain the weird birthmarks?” 

“Only a person who hasn’t activated a bond could possibly think that.” 

“So that’s 100% true, then? You feel it? Like an electric shock or something?” 

“No,” Ian speaks at the same time at Kev and V and immediately wants to cut out his own tongue. He hopes for a hot second that no one will notice, but sure enough, everyone is looking at him with curiosity. “I mean, it happened to a girl in my class. Some guy on the bus. She said it was like being lit up inside. Like the power going on. Not like a shock.” 

V smiles. “It’s gentle. But it’s definitely there. You can’t ignore what just happened.” 

Ian wouldn’t really describe the experience as gentle, but then, he was literally about to be beaten with a tire iron and there was just a lot of testosterone flying about. He likes the idea of it being what V describes—like a dawning—but what he felt was more like stadium lights flooding his field of vision. 

“Ok,” Lip seems to be discarding the idea that soulmates are a mass delusion. “Everyone has a soulmate, then. That’s the theory? So what about people who are asexual? Or a-romantic? 

Ian frowns. “A-what?”

“Don’t worry about it, Ian,” Lip tosses off. “You’re neither.” 

Kevin shrugs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about either.” 

“Kev, he just means people who aren’t into a traditional romantic experience,” V starts, but Lip jumps back in.

“I mean people who don’t WANT this! Who are happy alone or just don’t want to be in a relationship. What about them? Why are they being saddled with this fucking soulmate bullshit?” 

“Lip, come on,” V frowns. “You’re smarter than that. Hollywood, and romance novels and religion, they talk like all soulmates are _romantic_. Like that is the only type of relationship human beings have. For Kev and me, sure. I can’t imagine it any other way. But that’s because of who _we_ are. Look, if it was natural for everyone to just fall in love with their soulmate and live happily ever after… Well, we’d have a much happier society, to begin with. But people are more complicated than that, and we’ve all had a head trip that tells us there’s just one person for us to love and that person is our soulmate and that’s who we’re supposed to be with. And those same people will tell you there’s only one way TO be with your soulmate, too.” 

Kevin nodded, sagely. “Eastern philosophers have felt for centuries that your soulmate represents a reincarnated soul that you have something to learn from. That you bond with the person who will teach you the most. That has nothing to do with fucking.” 

Lip scoffs. “That doesn’t make any sense, Kev. There are more people on earth now than there were a million years ago. If we’re all reincarnated, how are there so many of us?” 

“You ever heard of old souls?” Kevin asks. “Well, you can’t have old souls without new souls.” 

“Ok,” Fiona sits up. “Enough of this. What do they say? Never talk religion, politics or soulmates. This conversation is turning into all three. Debs? Time for bed.” 

Debbie isn’t fully on board and pulls the attention trying to negotiate. Ian hesitates. He honestly wants to hear more of what Kevin was saying, but he can’t risk it after he fucked up on the bond thing. He tries to slide by into the house, but Lip approaches and holds out his cigarette. They’d fought out their mutual tension a few weeks ago. Lip was pissed that Ian was clearly hiding something and had suddenly lost interest in West Point, something Lip hadn’t wanted him to do in the first place. Ian was pissed about Lip’s innate Lip-osity, but also just… Karen. He could not deal with how stupid Lip was about Karen. 

Anyway. They had officially settled their scores—though Lip was still after Karen, and Ian was still keeping secrets—but the cigarette is clearly a new level of peace offering. Ian feels compelled to take it. 

“Where were you at?” 

“Mrs. Gravely’s.”

“Best kept lawn in the neighbourhood.” 

Ian shrugs. “She’s nice. It’s kinda peaceful there.” He hands the cigarette back. Lip smirks at him. 

“Any place is better than this place.” He takes a drag. “Hey, you know what’s up with Fiona?” 

Ian has to admit… No. She seemed normal to him. Kinda quiet… though at a party, maybe that’s enough to make Lip worry. 

“No idea.” 

Lip exhales, shooting the smoke up. “Fucking Gallaghers. When did we all get so god damn secretive?” 

Ian just eyes him cautiously. Maybe the bullseye is about to slide off his back. 

***

He’s right. The question of What is Up With Ian fades almost instantly. Lip drops out of school, Steve is a fucking thing again, and Frank’s mother—technically still his grandmother—is dying. Shit is busy, so Ian manages to skate by, keeping his head down, going to his job, and stumbling through school with pretty ok results—though good fucking thing he doesn’t care about West Point anymore. Trig is not his subject. 

But Mickey’s actually going to school and sometimes they even study together, which is weird, mostly. It’s immediately apparent why Mickey has never been much of a student. It’s not a question of brains, but a question of patience. If he doesn’t see an application, he really doesn’t give a fuck. He likes math, because he likes puzzles. He’s taking shop because it’s practical. Phys Ed because it’s a credit and he sees the point of being in shape. History, though? English? Fuck that. 

Honestly, Ian doesn’t really care. He’s not worried about Mickey’s education, he just wants him to stay out of juvie. And wants to pass him in the hall. Steal a few minutes—even if they have to pretend to be bros making small talk outside the caf. He got to see Mickey constantly all summer long. The school year is a fucking adjustment. 

Still. He’s glad for it. He loves the rare moments where Mickey shoots him a sly smile while he’s leaning on some kid who’s unwisely gotten into Mickey for something. Half the time he goes to find Mickey, he stumbles into something like that. He kinda feels like he lured the local wolf back into the herd of sheep. 

And he more than kinda digs that. 

He also has no fucking room to complain about what Mickey gets up to, because things at home get even stupider. Fiona and Lip have a fight, Grammy dies and then Monica is back. Because when it rains it fucking pours. 

So he’s a little preoccupied walking into the school with Mandy right after finding his mother in his kitchen for the first time in a year. Thinking about Lip, thinking about Monica, and trying to figure out how to ask her where Mickey is. He and Mickey barely text for the same reason they barely talk when other people are around—too fucking risky. So half the time, if he wants to find him, he’s got to find a way to smoothly ask Mandy what’s going on.

The problem is solved for him when she asks about Lip and he can return the question, after unfavourably comparing Karen to cancer. “What about Mick? He doing something with your dad again?” 

Mandy doesn’t say anything. Grimaces then tries to cover, and that makes Ian’s heart stop.

“Wait. Hey.” He pulls on her hand, tugging her over to the chain-link fence. “What’s going on? Is Mickey ok?” 

“Mickey? Yeah. No, he and Colin had to go do some shit. Dad doesn’t give a fuck that he’s in school. I mean, it’s a market. But beyond that, he could give a shit if any of us graduate. I don’t even know why Mickey’s even bothering. Dumb shit.” 

Ian has become pretty practiced at registering no reaction to Mickey-trashing, so he lets that one roll by. “So what’s going on? You seem... I don’t know. Upset.” 

Mandy shoots him a look that might be trying for scorn but ends up pleading. 

Ian’s brow knits. “I’m serious. What’s up?” 

“Nothing. Nothing, I’m fine.” She’s forcing a smile while there are literal tears in her eyes, but Ian knows not to push. Instead he plucks her knit cap off her head and smooths her hair. 

“Ok,” he murmurs. “But you can talk to me.” 

She grabs Ian’s sleeve, nodding with her lips pressed closed. “I would, but there’s nothing to talk about.” 

Her voice quakes. He lets her lie to him. Just puts his arm around her shoulders as they head into the school, in their usual performative display of heterosexuality, but rubbing his thumb along her shoulder in what he hopes is a soothing gesture. He can feel her shore herself up. Put on her tough girl front. She immediately sneers at a freshman girl who glances her way. 

“What the fuck are you looking at?” 

The girl looks stricken, and hurries away. Ian has to suppress a smile. “You’ll be ok.” 

“Fucking right I will.” 

The next morning, Terry Milkovich tries to kill him. 

***

Mickey restrains himself from running. Instead, he heads down the back alley towards the Gallaghers with purpose. Ian’s text message was innocuous, just told Mickey to come meet him. But Ian has never sent a text message like that. They have little codes, mostly built around the Kash & Grab, and Mrs. Gravely’s. They MEAN “come see me”. But Ian never says it that bluntly. 

He feels certain that something bad has happened. He had to keep reminding himself that people do not share a psychic connection with their soulmates. He can’t FEEL Ian in trouble any more than he can read his mind. That was why juvie had been so fucking hard. It was the lack of Ian more than anything else. It was just not knowing. The bond was new, but he’d swiftly made Ian the centre of his world and when that centre is miles away and you can’t do anything to protect him or even know how he is… It drove him a little crazy. 

He used to try and push how long he could go without seeing Ian, just to figure out what the limits were. He’d barely get to 48 hours. They’d stopped trying at some point and now he’s realizing it’s been about that long and _fuck_ , he’s unsettled. 

He reaches the backyard and spots Ian sitting in the front seat of their abandoned van. He yanks open the driver side door. “What the fuck, Gallagher.” 

“Your father attacked me while I was making breakfast.” 

Mickey just stares. There’s still some blood around Ian’s upper lip, and he’s holding a bag of frozen peas to his face. But he’s not dead, so… Mickey throws a furtive glance over his shoulder and then crawls into the van and shuts the in. “You’re not making any fucking sense.” 

“Really?” Mickey can feel Ian’s irritation and it’s a bit of a relief, honestly. Irritation he can deal with. “You can’t think of one fucking reason your Dad might want to punch me out?” 

“If my dad knew about us, believe me, we’d both look a hell of a lot worse. You wanna tell me what happened?” 

Ian removes the frozen peas from his face and jostles the bag in his hand. “Fuck it. The whole neighbourhood probably knows by now. Your dad is pissed because Mandy’s pregnant and he thinks I’m the father.” 

Mickey stares at him. Like, the words make sense, but—

“The fuck she is.” 

“I tried her three times before you got here. She’s not answering her phone.” 

Mickey’s brain is being stupid. Sluggish. It’s caught on something he knows is dumb, but the words come out anyway. “You’re not—” 

Ian shoots him a look that makes the depth of that question’s idiocy apparent. 

“Ok,” Mickey allows. “But who is it, then? Because some asshole’s owed a beatdown.”

“I don’t know a fucking thing, Mickey.” He leans back against the seat, closing his eyes. “I thought he’d found out about us. It just freaked me out.” 

Mickey nods. Swallows. He studies Ian. Resisting reaching out to touch him. “Is your nose broken?” 

“Not for lack of trying. But fucking no.” 

“What’s all that shit in your hair?” 

“Grammy Gallagher.” 

They sit in silence for a minute. Honestly, the math on how Ian’s dead grandmother is in his hair is easier to do than the math on Mandy’s pregnancy. 

“Fucking Gallaghers.” 

“Her ashes were on the table. Your dad kinda knocked them over. So.” 

“Mmm. Fucking Milkoviches.” 

“Yeah.”

They both smile. Ian’s tired and hurt and Mickey feels a strong surge of something else right as Ian opens his eyes and sets his gaze on him. It pulls Mickey in like a tractor beam—fucking ashes, blood and swollen face covered in frozen pea water. He doesn’t care. He wants to kiss him. 

“Let’s go into the back,” Ian says, softly.

“Yeah.” 

They crawl into the back of the van, which has always reminded Mickey of a bordello from an old movie, and stretch out together. He can’t touch Ian exactly how he wants to, because his nose is swollen and his whole face hurts, but they figure it out. Mickey lies next to him, gazing into his eyes like this is a thing people do. Like just looking at someone is a good use of time. He runs his hands over Ian’s chest and arms. He nuzzles his neck and listens to Ian’s laboured breathing. He can feel the frustration between them. That Ian wants what Mickey wants. Wants to take a moment to just bask in the relief of being in the same place again. Having a couple of minutes alone. And to fucking touch each other. 

Before Ian, Mickey didn’t kiss during sex. Ever. He only started because he found it really hard not to kiss Ian. Especially when he could sense how much Ian wanted him to. Now he’s fucking used to it. Expects to work himself up with it. It’s intimate, and he likes how Ian looks at him when they pull apart. He likes feeling that close, and he thinks it’s sexy as fuck. Now he’s become someone who feels the lack of it when they can’t really go at it the way they normally would. 

Instead, he kisses Ian’s neck and the corner of his mouth, the crest of his cheekbone. Mickey gently cups his face and Ian’s eyes drift up to him. Mickey can feel the vulnerability and the worry. How shaken up he is.

“He doesn’t know,” Mickey says, to reassure both of them. “He’s not going to fucking know.” 

“He’s coming for me anyway.” 

“We’ll fix it. Find out what’s going on from Mandy and fix it.” 

Ian sighs and slides his hands along Mickey’s chest. “Just glad you’re here,” he mumbles a bit. “Glad you came.” 

Warmth bubbles up in Mickey’s stomach at that. “Maybe we need another code. Just text me 911 or something. I’ll come soon as I can. Always.” 

Ian nods, continuing to touch Mickey like he’s on some exploratory mission. Hands down his chest and then over to his sides, along his rib cage. Then they move for this belt. Mickey lets him, his breathing turning shallow, as Ian unbuckles him, pops open his jeans and slides down the zipper. Ian grins at him before licking his palm and reaching into his boxers, Mickey already groaning in anticipation.

“Honey!” He hears the high, singsong voice a second too late, “are you in there?” He doesn’t fully react until the back door on the van creaks open. But then he’s up, pushing Ian off and tucking himself back into his jeans, moving as fast as he can, which isn’t fast enough because he hears Ian’s mother gasp. “Oh!” 

He doesn't look at Ian and he doesn’t wait. He just moves. Bursts out of the van and runs. Like his fucking life depends on it. 

***

Fucking Monica! 

Ian has never felt closer to murder. He really hasn’t. The rage isn’t rational but it is primal as he turns to his mother and sets his jaw. 

“You can’t tell anyone.” 

“Honey! I didn’t know you liked boys!” Monica looks DELIGHTED and she probably is. She knows something. Something only Lip knows, and there’s no fucking way around it. She’s not stupid. She fully understands what she walked in on. 

“I’m serious,” he restates as Monica crawls into the back of the van, which now feels claustrophobic. 

“That’s _wonderful_. Who is he?” 

She wants fucking girl talk or something, but Ian wants to meltdown. He wants to chase Mickey, which he knows he can’t do, and he wants to just pound his fists on the floor in frustration. “Monica, I swear to God. If you tell anyone — ANYONE — I will fucking run. I will go get him and I’ll run. You’ll never see me again.” 

“Ian, sweetie! You don’t have to do that,” Monica is reaching for him and he scoots back, like an animal crouching into the back corner of a cage. “You should be proud. When I was with Roberta, we were proud.”

Ian looks at her with exasperation, but he feels a tiny release in his stomach. The small part of him that was braced for rejection. Logically, he doesn’t expect it over his sexuality. Not from his family — or not from the ones that matter — but he does expect not to be met with understanding, either. Like Lip, who thought he just hadn’t tried out being straight — as if everyone isn’t assigned straightness as a default. So it’s just a little nice to see his mother accept it with no argument. But he also knows Monica is seeing an in with him, and she’s burrowing into it. And he has to let her. He has to let her in and make her think it’s a way to be close to him because he just lost the right to be pissed at her. The most important thing in his life right now is to get her to keep this to herself. To get her to help him protect Mickey. 

“He can’t be out. It’s not ok for him at home.” 

“Ohhhh. Is he your boyfriend?” Monica is reaching out and touching his arm, now. Both hands, gripping onto his forearm. He decides to let her. 

“We’re together,” he mutters. “Mandy’s baby isn’t mine.” 

“Aw. So you’re gay, honey? Is that it?”

Honey, sweetie, baby. Monica has kinda murdered these words for him. 

“I care about him. If people know, it’ll be dangerous. If something happens to him—“

“I know, I know,” Monica is crooning now. “It’ll be our little secret.” And now her hands are wrapping around his. She’s holding them in both of hers and smiling at him in a way that he can’t help but return. 

“Ok,” he allows. “Ok. Thank you.” 

His mother smiles, lips pressed together and eyes bright. Then she lights up. “Oh! I can take you CLUBBING!” 

_Jesus Christ._

***

It takes awhile for Mickey to decide how to go back. 

Because he shouldn’t go back. He should stay the fuck away from Gallagher for life. He can’t stop making tiny mistakes that add up to big mistakes, and he can’t stop taking risks, so of fucking course now they’ve been caught.

He tries to trick himself into thinking that Ian’s mom didn’t see anything, but there’s no way. And even if she didn’t, he’d fled the scene so fast that there wasn’t much doubt that she didn’t know what was going on. So now all the eggs are in the “she doesn’t know who I am” basket.

He shaved. That’s the only fucking action he could figure out on his own. Shaved and cut his hair and maybe she won’t fully know what he looks like enough to pick him out if she happens to see him at the Kash & Grab or something. 

Speaking of, that’s the other thing he should do. He should quit his job. Give up the place where he has a reason to see Ian, other than school. Give up all those hours they get together without anyone thinking it’s weird. 

He can’t do that, either. 

So instead he doesn’t pick up the phone when Ian calls and he doesn’t respond to the text messages. He does listen to the voice mails. They say it’s fine. He came out to his mom. She wants to take him to a club. She promised not to say anything and don’t worry, she’ll take off soon enough. She always leaves. 

He does try to track down Mandy and at least deal with that problem, but he has no luck. She’s not answering calls and his aunt is either lying to him, or Mandy has found another place to go to ground. Mickey mostly ducks his father, which is easy because he’s drunk by the time he can bring himself to go home. Since Mickey’s not in the crosshairs for once, he just goes to his room and stays there. 

But now it’s been nearly 24 hours and he’s starting to feel that omnipresent urge to see Ian turn from longing into need. Or what he identifies as need. He knows he CAN stay away but he hates it so much, he pretends it’s not possible past a certain point. 

He does have a text. _“T fucked up K/G.”_ That makes him nervous, so he skips heading to school and goes to check it out. He has to linger across the street until he sees Lip leave. 

“You maybe don’t have a job anymore,” Ian says, without looking up from his cleaning. 

“Linda know it was my dad?” 

“I don’t know. I’m not sure how much she’s ever known about the neighbourhood.” He exhales and stands up. “Monica isn’t going to tell anyone.”

“Yeah, you said that on the voice mail.” 

“Didn’t know if you listened.” 

Mickey ignores the little bit of hurt Ian’s giving off. It’s pretty muffled by the anxiety, anyway.

“Can’t find Mandy.”

“Me neither.” 

“You know anything about whose kid this could be?” 

“Still no.” Ian keeps stacking cans, and still isn’t looking at Mickey, so he decides to start clearing up the chips. He sneaks a few quick looks at Ian’s profile. 

“Your face looks better.” 

It looks remarkable, honestly. The swelling is gone and his skin is just as milky white and unblemished as ever. But Ian just shrugs. “For now.” 

And now Mickey can feel a surge of rage coming off him. He should get mad in return, but he’s swimming in guilt right now. Guilt that Ian is hurt, that he couldn’t warn him or protect him. That he went home to the place where the person who hurt Ian was, and didn’t answer any calls or texts all night. That this isn’t over and Mickey doesn't know how to solve it. 

“Are you pissed at me?” 

He sounds weak and pathetic to his own ears. He can’t fucking muster his usual aggression. He doesn’t want to fight. He just wants Ian to look at him. 

Instead Ian bows his head and lets out a frustrated huff. He stands, moves to the front door and turns the lock. Then he heads into the back. Mickey follows, helpless to do anything else, and watches Ian bolt the back door, then glance up at the camera that’s turned towards the loading area. He takes a few steps into the blind sport in the corner and finally meets Mickey’s eyes. 

Mickey almost runs towards him. Ian is reaching before he even gets there, pulling him in for a deep, hard kiss. His hand is around the back of Mickey’s neck and Mickey rests both hands on the wall next to him so that he can lean in and press in close. He lets his eyes close and just feels. And yes, Ian is angry and frustrated and freaked out. But he still loves him. His relief is overwhelming. 

“I’m not pissed at you,” Ian murmurs when they finally pull back from each other. “Though you could return a fucking text message.” 

He could. But Mickey is in the habit of deleting the threads instantly and he was too jittery last night to sit and peck out some pointless T9 message with nothing to say. 

“I shoulda called. I just didn’t want to make anything fucking worse.” 

“I am pissed that your Dad is trying to kill me and it’s not even about the actual reason he has to want me dead.” 

Mickey doesn’t want to think about that — though all he’s been doing since the day they bonded is thinking about that — and instead presses his forehead against Ian’s. “If you didn’t do anything then we can fix this. We just gotta figure out what’s really going on.” 

“Lip wants us to plant a gun at your place and call the cops.” 

Mickey straightens up, sputtering out a laugh. “Are you fucking kidding me? What’s that gonna do?” 

Ian shrugs. “Fuck up his parole?” 

“He’ll do that fast enough on his own. And there are more guns in my house than fucking drinking glasses.”

“Ok,” Ian looks confused. “So can’t we just call in a tip on that?” 

Mickey shakes his head. “You know what the cops out here are like. They’ll fuck you up over the petty shit, but anything big takes forever. Plus, he’ll definitely think it’s a Gallagher thing. He’s not going to be confused over who most wants him out of the picture right now.” 

“Shit.” 

“Yeah.” 

Ian’s fingers are playing with Mickey’s hair. “You got it cut.” 

“Yeah.”

“Shaved, too.” 

Mickey shrugs. “Whadda ya think?” 

“You look good. Still.”

Mickey allows himself a smile. Ian can get real sweet sometimes without even meaning to. Just that off-hand _I like you_ stuff. Mickey has gone through and counted up all the stuff that proves that this guy is really his soulmate about a million times. It feels like a cosmic mistake that he’d get anyone like Ian. He wonders sometimes if Ian does the same, but for the opposite reason. Just not understanding how he ended up with a dirty, trashy Milkovich. But he knows he doesn’t. Ian is just in this with him. No questions. _Happy. Peaceful. In love._

Though. This morning. 

“We’ll figure it out,” Mickey tries to sound confident. “Just gotta talk to Mandy.” 

“Well, I’m gonna have to tell Lip something. He thinks he’s got this solved.” 

Mickey snorts, the absurdity of it sneaking up on him. “Jesus, Gallagher. I thought your brother was supposed to be a genius.” 

“What?” 

“One gun. And he’d 100% expect me or Iggy to go down for that shit. Probably me, since it’d be juvie.” 

Ian just gazes at him a long moment, as if a shitty dad is somehow a foreign concept to him.

“Your father sucks,” he sighs, finally.

Some twisted part of Mickey wants to argue because it's fucking infuriating when a Gallagher, even his Gallagher, talks like they’re better than the Milkoviches. But he knows what Ian’s saying. Frank Gallagher sucks the way a roach infestation sucks. He’s a parasite and doesn’t give a fuck about his children, but everything he does is to serve himself and his direct interests, which are mostly getting drunk. He’s not going to waste energy paying enough attention to any of them to get homicidal about who his kids are fucking. On that front, Terry Milkovich wins. 

“It’d be worse if he knew about us,” Mickey says, finally. Because he’s pretty fucking sure that’s true. “Let’s get this mess cleaned up. Then we’ll come up with something.” 

*** 

Getting Lip to let Ian handle this “on this own” isn’t fucking easy, even though Lip has enough of his own problems right now. Ian feels a bit caught, because Lip’s big brother attitude doesn’t offend him, but at the same time, he can’t solve this with Lip and solve it with Mickey at the same time. In fact, he kinda doesn’t want to solve it with either of them. What he WANTS is to talk to Mandy. 

Which is why he goes to the Milkovich house alone and makes everything instantly worse. Because Terry IS home and so is Mandy and now he knows something he wishes to hell he didn’t. 

He KNEW things were going to get harder once summer was over. He and Mickey had things on lock in July and August. He saw him almost every day. They barely had to take the risk of texting and calling each other. All he had to do was wait and Mickey would turn up. They spent hours together every day and Ian never got tired of him. Plus, the summer weather meant they could go all sorts of places to be alone. Get some fucking privacy.

School is barely back in and already he feels like he’s always looking for Mickey and finding the wrong fucking people. It only took maybe a week or two after school started for him and Mickey to get caught together. Now his best friend is pregnant with a fucking incest baby. And apparently, no one is going to help her, so he’s gonna have to figure out how to raise $600. And not tell his soulmate who the father of his own sister’s baby is. 

The last thing can’t be done. He’s been brooding on it for an hour, while he rakes the leaves on Mrs. Gravely’s lawn. He keeps checking his phone, waiting for Mickey to text him back because he feels stuck. He can’t betray Mandy and he can’t lie to Mickey. Like literally can’t. Mickey will read it on him in a second. There’s only one solution he can come up with and it’s gonna cause more trouble. 

Mickey texts back, agreeing to meet Ian, right as he’s finishing up. He’s gotta bite the bullet. He could try and have this conversation with Mickey in the shed, but the timing is wrong and he thinks it’s going to be too fucked up. So he texts Mickey to ask where he is, and when he puts everything away, he heads towards the high school bleachers. He finds Mickey sitting on a low concrete slab underneath, smoking a cigarette. He approaches slowly, keeping his distance. They’re pretty out in the open, so he grabs onto the bars across from Mickey and twists her arms through them. Lets his body hang forward and tries to find it in him to smile. 

“What’s up?” Mickey sounds bored, but Ian can feel a steady beat of worry kicking around in him. Varying from Ian’s own unease just enough to stand out. He takes a deep breath. 

“We gotta tell your sister we’re bonded.” 

The spike of panic is instant. “The fuck you talking about?” 

“I know who the father is. It’s fucking complicated and I need her to trust me, so she’s gotta understand why I can’t keep it a secret from you.”

“Why the fuck would you—“ Mickey stops dead. He stares ahead a moment. Ian can feel a hard, coldness in Mickey, followed by a swift kick of nausea. When he speaks, his voice is eerie. “Why she want it a secret?”

“I can’t—” Ian tries to come up with a reason, any reason, why he can’t say more. He’s got nothing, and he knows Mickey can read the spiking anxiety. He exhales, at a loss. “I can’t.” 

And somehow, that is confirmation to Mickey, who leans over like he might vomit into the dirt. He shakes his head, hard. “No,” Mickey says, determined. “No fucking way.” 

Ian can barely get the words out over all the turbulent internal noise coming at him. When he does manage it, his tongue feels numb. “I’m not gonna talk about it ’til we tell her.” 

Mickey springs up and bolts, but only gets a few feet away before he turns back on Ian. 

“It’s fucking him. That what you’re telling me?” 

“I’m not telling you anything,” Ian tries, but Mickey looks murderous. “Fuck. Mickey, what do you want me to do? This isn’t exactly something I have a lot of experience with.” He looks down at the gravel beneath him. He’s getting nothing but revulsion and fear off Mickey right now, but he has to ask. “Did you know? That he did that?” 

“Fucking no, but…”

But. 

Ian tries to think of the worst thing he thinks Frank is capable of. He can’t come up with anything this dark. 

“What is she…” Mickey’s voice startles Ian and he looks up. In the dim light, he can make out the devastation on his soulmate’s face clearly. “How…” He can’t get any more words out. 

“She’s Mandy. She's fucking tough and she doesn’t want to talk about it. But I gotta help her, Mick.” He takes a deep breath. “She’s my best friend. It’s gotta be me and I gotta let her know why I couldn’t hide it from you.” 

They stand in silence and Ian does his best to follow the churn of everything going through his soulmate right now. Mickey’s eyes are darting around, refusing to rest anywhere. Finally, he chokes out a laugh. 

“Bonded with a real fucking winner here, Gallagher.” 

Ian lets go of the bars he’s been using to practically hold himself up. He walks towards Mickey, looking around for passersby. There’s another couple, he can see through the slats. Sitting on the opposite side, far away and unaware of them. But he can’t take a chance. Instead of pulling Mickey into him, like he wants to, he reaches out with his pinky and lets it brush, lightly, against Mickey’s. Mickey’s whole body jerks in response, but his eyes finally meet Ian’s. 

“Yeah. I did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Due to Mandy's pregnancy, this chapter (and the next) references incest. 
> 
> This hopefully gives a decent idea of how this is going to go. We are going to hit some signposts from cannon, but a lot of things will unfold differently because of the bond. Ian and Mickey are both motivated by protecting the bond, so Ian is more careful and Mickey is less likely to bolt or do something that will separate them. Thus, Frank has a harder time ripping off the Kash & Grab. 
> 
> Also: Lip is wrong to say people who are ace don’t want a bonded relationship, but it would be very OOC for teen Lip to have a nuanced understanding of non-hetero sexuality. He was trying to make a point, and his facts were getting convenient. 
> 
> Next up: **Chapter Three: Tested** Fun Razor. Kevin and V have a lot of thoughts, and so does Oprah.


	4. Tested

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian helps Mandy. Kevin and V have some questions. The Gallaghers have an eventful Thanksgiving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Tags updated. Explicit warning at the end of the chapter. Nothing that isn’t in cannon. This chapter covers the back-third of season two.

Mickey can’t feel his body. He’s moving next to Ian, walking towards his house, and for the first time he wants—has to stop himself from trying—to hold his hand. He desperately wants the grounding he thinks it would give him because he feels like he’s falling through space. 

He knew his father was a fucking mess. He did. He knows his father is a violent thug, a criminal and a pretty terrible dad. He’s been beaten so badly he couldn’t leave the house for a week. Same fucking thing for every one of his siblings. And then there’s the shit he never talks about and doesn’t want anyone to know. The fact that his dad can be fucking sadistic. That he isn't always satisfied with blood and bruises. That he has to cut you down inside in ways you don’t even see coming. 

But he always had a bit of a line with Mandy. She was The Girl. Mandy did most of the cooking and cleaning, what little was insisted on, and she definitely got it bad from Terry, just like the rest of them. But he intervened when the battle was between her and her brothers. Never did that with him, Colin and Iggy. He thought there was maybe this little extra bit of care. Some acknowledgement that she had enough shit to deal with. 

His stomach lurches again. He’s probably not going to get through this without getting sick. This is going to change things. Ian knows just how disgusting his family is now. He knows they are bad, even by Southside Trash standards. For most people, the Gallaghers are bottom of the barrel. People _pity_ them. From the Milkovich point of view, there’s nothing worse than that. It is far better to be feared than pitied.

But now. There’s nothing worse than this. Mickey feels tainted. There’s no separating himself from this. They’re all a fucking horror show. 

Mickey feels a sharp tug on his arm and stumbles as Ian pulls him into an alleyway. He can’t bring himself to look at his soulmate, eyes darting everywhere else. His stomach heaves and he can feel bile surging up his esophagus just as Ian puts a hand on the back of his neck. 

“You’re panicking.” 

Maybe. He’d normally say he doesn’t panic, but he’s doing something. He shakes his head, hard, but reaches out and grabs the sleeve of Ian’s jacket. His head is swimming. His vision might be going a little dark. Fuck. 

“I can’t,” he manages, finally. Can’t what, he’s not sure. Can’t see Mandy. Can’t look at her. Can’t tell her about Ian. Can’t go home, maybe ever. Just can’t. 

He feels Ian’s forehead brush his temple and he closes his eyes, swallowing convulsively.

“Just breathe, Mick. It’s ok. Just breathe.” 

It’s _really_ not fucking ok. 

But he does it. Keeps his eyes closed and breathes. He tries to match Ian’s exhalations, the breath he can feel against his cheek. Then, desperate to get the fuck out of his own head, he reaches out to try and read what Ian’s feeling. Goes looking for the revulsion and regret, like a fucking masochist. He runs straight into worry. Then maybe guilt. 

“What the fuck, Ian,” he finally manages. “Just… what the fuck am I supposed to do about this?” 

“Whatever Mandy wants us to do. Which, right now, is get money.” 

Mickey swallows, a little more carefully. “Money.” 

“For the abortion.” 

Right. 

“Look,” Ian takes a breath and Mickey can feel his nerves flaring. “Mandy doesn’t want anyone feeling sorry for her. I just want her to understand that I literally couldn’t keep this a secret. And I guess I should have let her know that before, but… I promised you. So.”

So. Ian was fucked. 

Mickey turns his face into Ian’s neck and does something he’s never done before. As close as he feels to Ian, as much as he understands that he’s his soulmate and that he’s holding nothing back from him—that he can’t. That Ian would know—He’s never been able to just fully let go of the external bravado. There have been little moments where he’s slipped, like when Ian suggested breaking the bond and Mickey had felt the earth vanish from right beneath him. But right now, he just thinks “fuck it”. Right now, with this person, feeling like he can barely take a step forward, he gives up and asks the question that is hammering inside his brain. 

“How the fuck can you want to be with me after something like this?” 

And that's it. Because this is a nightmare, but it’s not beyond the scope of his father’s particular brand of inhumanity. Even though Ian hasn’t said anything about how Mickey knows what it’s going to be. It’s going to be his dad, drunk and fucking disgusting. And it probably wasn’t just once and Mandy’s been fucking rolling with it for years because it’s only sometimes. Which is just everything with this dad. It’s not always. It’s only sometimes. 

But that isn’t the reason he can’t breathe right now. He knows it should be, but it’s not. He can’t stand that Ian knows. The shame is almost choking him. He’d let himself forget this shit. All summer, ever since he got out of juvie, he’s been living some other person’s life. Where he gets to spend all this time with his hot soulmate, who loves him and always wants to be with him. Who’s 9/10ths normal, says shit like _“I would do anything for you”_ and can’t keep his hands off him. Who never, ever, pushes him away or blows him off. It had been too fucking good to be true, and it had relied real fucking heavily on Ian only knowing what he was feeling at any given moment and nothing else. Nothing about how truly fucked up Mickey’s life actually is. 

Mickey shares DNA with this asshole. 

And now he is so fucked up that he’s actually standing in an alley, out in the open, letting Ian comfort him—which is about the worst possible thing he could be doing. It would be easier to explain a fucking blow job. 

Mickey pushes out a lungful of air and forces himself to open his eyes and look at Ian. Who is just standing there, frowning. He can barely stand to look at him. But he does. Because this soulmate thing is a bitch. He knows it’s a big part of what’s going on with him and Ian, but he also knows that he’d probably be here anyway. He can’t picture a world where he isn’t desperately hung up on Ian Gallagher. But if he could run now, he would. If he could hide from Ian, he’d do it. 

“Nothing’s changed, Mickey,” Ian says, his tone gentle and… just fucking sweet, like he always is. Made all the worse, because Ian can tell what’s going on inside him. He knows so fucking much. “Nothing your dad does is ever going to change anything. Not for me.” Ian glances down the alley on both sides, making sure they’re truly alone before he steps a little closer. Mickey just gives the fuck up and grabs his hand. Like it’s a fucking lifeline. And that makes Ian smile, which Mickey thinks is insane. 

“I’m always gonna want you,” Ian murmurs. And he doesn’t add the obvious part—the soulmate part—much to Mickey’s relief, because right now he doesn’t want to be reminded of the cosmic marching orders. He doesn’t want to be told he has nothing to worry about, because Ian has no choice. He just wants to hear this. He wants to be told it’s ok and he isn’t going to lose this because of something else he can’t control. 

“I _love_ you.” 

Mickey isn’t even aware he decided to say it. It came out of him like breath. Ian squeezes his hand. He has that same warm smile on his face. 

“I know, Mickey.” 

***

They share a cigarette in the alley because Mickey honestly seemed to need a moment. Ian can feel the fatigue that’s rushed in once he starts to calm down. They lean against the brick wall together, their arms pressed together and hands brushing, but nothing beyond that. Back to plausible deniability. 

He wants to hold him and he hopes Mickey can tell. Hopes he doesn’t hate it. Mickey’s got a lot of shit about letting himself be taken care of. Ian figures it’s mostly that he thinks being vulnerable is the same as being weak. But Jesus, the vulnerability pulls him in so hard. When Mickey’s in trouble, all he wants to do is be allowed to help. 

Close behind is Mandy, though. He always knew bonding with his best friend’s brother was going to get messy, but he didn’t see this coming. He’s got a hard knot in his stomach that he didn’t even manage to obscure what she’d told him long enough to get the three of them together. Underestimating how much Mickey knew about his own father’s depravity. Ian is no stranger to bad dads, but Jesus. Terry Milkovich really does make Frank look like a rank amateur. 

When Mickey’s ready, they walk slowly and silently to the Milkovich house. Ian wants to take Mickey’s hand again. He fucking hates the closet. Silently resents every single person who makes it harder for him to do something as simple as offer a comforting touch to his soulmate because they’re having a hard day. He settles for just being there. 

Ian fiddles with his phone as they approach Trumbull, then taps out a quick message. “All clear?” 

Mandy responds immediately. “Yeah. But hurry.” 

He nudges Mickey’s wrist with his fist and they head down the street, picking up the pace. 

“You sure about this?” Mickey murmurs as they approach. 

“I’m sure we gotta do it,” Ian sighs. “Mandy’s always had my back.” 

“Mandy literally sent me after you to kick your ass, Gallagher.” 

“That was before,” Ian knows this is not a great position to defend. Mandy and Mickey aren’t close like he and Mandy are. And he doesn’t know the whole history of that, except all the kids in that house treat each other like human shields half the time. But he’s sure Mandy won’t fuck him on this. And he’s pretty sure it might make her chill out a bit about Mickey. Maybe. 

She’s already coming out onto the porch, wrapped up in a hoodie and looking about ready to bolt. Ian holds up a hand in greeting and Mandy looks relieved for a hot second before she frowns, and hops down the stairs. 

“What the fuck is he doing here?” 

“I fucking live here,” Mickey objects, which is at least pretty normal for their dynamic. 

“Why are you with Ian? Ian, what the fuck?”

Ian pulls in a deep, fortifying breath. “I gotta tell you something.” 

“Not here,” Mickey immediately starts up the steps. “Dad out?” 

“More like passed out. In his fucking bedroom for once.” 

Ian wills himself not to flinch. Drunk Terry has taken on some pretty dark implications. Mickey jerks his head towards the door. “My room. Make it quick.” 

Mandy gives Ian a questioning look that is verging into fear. He takes her hand, exactly the thing he can’t do with her brother. It’s so fucking easy with her. 

“I’ll explain. I promise.” 

Ian ends up pulling Mandy into her own house, through the living room and towards Mickey’s open Stay-the-Fuck-Out door. When he slips through, Mickey is already sitting on the bed. Hands gripping the edge of the mattress, staring straight ahead. 

“What are you doing? He has nothing to do with this.” Mandy hisses as Ian pulls the door shut. 

“I just gotta tell you something.” He shrugs off his coat. Mickey doesn’t move and Ian can feel a morass of emotion he can’t readily make sense of. “Mick?” 

Mickey just shakes his head. “Fucking do it.” 

Ian turns back to find Mandy looking even more unnerved. “I told you if I ever showed anyone my soulmark it’d be you, right?” 

“Yeah…” Mandy’s eyes are fixed on Mickey, but the two points that feel so obvious to Ian are not connecting. He tugs up the edge of his shirt and she redirects her gaze to the very top of his mark, just barely exposed above the waistband of his jeans. He can tell the moment when it all comes together for her. 

“Holy shit.” She moves forward, grabbing his jeans and tugging them down just the little bit needed to see the mark. “Holy FUCK.” 

“If you tell Dad, I will fucking gut you,” 

“Oh, fuck you,” Mandy shoots back before Ian can even try to intervene. “You think I want Ian’s balls cut off? Jesus Christ.” She steps back from him, hands sinking into her hair. “How long have you known?” 

“Since just before I went back into juvie,” Mickey’s voice is dead in a way Ian doesn’t like. 

“That’s, like, almost a year!” 

Well. Not quite, but Ian wasn’t in the mood to quibble. “We didn’t tell anyone, Mands. No one knows but us. And now you.” 

“So what the fuck are you telling me this for now?” 

“I can’t...” Ian struggles to find the right words, but Mickey jumps in for him. 

“He can’t fucking lie to me. Like he can, but I’ll know he’s all guilty and twisted up, so he couldn’t pretend he didn’t know about --” he gestures towards her midsection.

Mandy’s shoulders hunch immediately. Ian is prepared for her to yell. To scream at him for his betrayal and he knows she has a point. But he also has no idea how he could have handled this differently. He either fucks over Mickey or he fucks over Mandy. There’s no winning hand here. 

“You didn’t know?” 

Mandy is talking to Mickey now. Looking past Ian, her face twisted like it always is when she’s ready to take someone’s head off, but is still hoping she might not have a good reason. 

Mickey shrugs. “Knew it wasn’t Ian’s. Only put it together because he didn’t want to tell me whose it was. And there’s no fucking reason not to tell me. Unless.” 

“So you did know.” 

“No, I didn’t fucking know,” Mickey finally shows some emotion, kicking at the floor. “I didn’t fucking know and then suddenly I just… I _know_ him, ok? And I know Ian. So yeah. Now I know.” He nods in Ian’s direction. “He still never fucking told me. But he wanted you to know why he couldn’t keep your secret. So now--” he waves a hand to indicate this whole thing. 

“Now I’m not keeping yours,” Ian murmurs. 

“Don’t feel fucking guilty, man. There’s no point.” 

Mandy looks back and forth between them, thoroughly freaked. “Wait. Did he just read you?” 

Ian rubs the back of his neck, feeling slightly freakish. “I mean, we’re bonded. So yeah. We know… Like, we can do that.” 

Mandy’s eyes go wide. “Fucking weird.” 

“You’re tellin’ me,” Mickey mutters. 

“But this,” He can tell it’s all unfolding for Mandy, still. “So you’re _together_.” She looks over at Mickey in shock. “You’re _gay_.” 

“What the fuck does it matter? Yeah, we’re together. He’s my fucking soulmate.” 

“And you,” she turns back to Ian. “You said all that stuff about how you didn’t want to bond yet!” 

Ian doesn’t need the bond to know Mickey is going to hate that—but he has it, so he gets a good sharp jab of hurt feelings. 

“We’re happy, Mands. It’s just really fucking complicated.” 

“So what,” Mandy frowns, tucking her hands under her arms the way she always does when she’s feeling uncertain. “What does this mean? About what we talked about.” 

“Nothing. Just… I mean, maybe Mickey can help raise the money—” 

He snorts. “I can knock over a liquor store, I guess.” 

“No,” Ian holds up a hand. “No. We’re just… we’re gonna figure it out.” 

Mandy smirks. “Ian wants to have a bake sale or something.” 

“Not a bake sale,” Ian’s exasperation is written all over him and both Milkovich siblings start to laugh, which seems very unfair. “Ok, so maybe a bake sale… component. Just—It'll work. If there’s one thing Gallaghers know how to do, it’s get blood out of a stone.”

Mandy is grinning at him, which is not something he expected from her, but one thing about the Milkoviches—they expect fuck-all from anybody. Mandy’s not mad because she never had total faith that Ian would keep her secret and she didn't have faith that her brothers weren’t looking the other way about what was going on with her father. In a fucked up way, this is all good news to her. Mandy hates it when people feel sorry for her, but Ian can’t help it. He does. And she’ll smell it on him if he doesn’t move fast, so he reaches out and brushes his hand against hers. 

“It’s gonna be ok. I promise.” 

Mandy Milkovich, for all her doubts about the concept of basic decency, smirks at him. It’s warm, but he knows he’s got shit to answer for. Shit that she isn’t going to make him unpack in front of her brother.

“Ok,” she agrees. “But you should get the fuck out of here. You might not be my baby daddy, but it’s not a good time for Dad to catch you around here.” 

“Yeah,” Ian nods. “I will. In a sec.” 

She looks confused, then realizes Ian’s waiting to have a minute with Mickey. Alone. She shakes her head. 

“So fucking weird,” she mutters, pulling open the door and making her escape. Ian pushes the door closed, quietly, as soon as she’s gone, and turns to lean his back against it. Mickey is still sitting on the edge of the bed, staring straight ahead and looking like he wants to crawl right out of his skin. 

“Hey.” 

“You should fucking leave,” Mickey sniffs, shaking himself like he’s coming to. “I’ll catch you at the store tomorrow.” 

Ian’s mouth twists. He tries hard not to smile. “Come here.” 

Mickey shoots him a look. “Fuck off.” 

“Come here. Please.” 

Mickey’s agitation is growing, but he gets up and moves across the room, fingers working against each other, filled with nervous energy.

“I don’t want a fucking apology.” 

“I don’t fucking have one,” Ian shrugs. He reaches out and hooks a finger into the loop on Mickey’s jeans, dragging him in. 

“My father’s down the fucking hall.” 

“I know.” Ian lets his gaze travel over his soulmate. He lets his voice drop to a whisper. “I’ll be real quiet.” 

Mickey groans in frustration—at himself more than anyone because Ian can feel the profoundly unwelcome desire coiling inside Mickey’s stomach. He parts his lips just in time for Mickey to crash into him. And Jesus Christ, it feels good. He pulls hard at the waist of Mickey’s jeans, bringing his body flush against him, while he cradles Mickey’s head with his other hand. Their kiss is hungry and desperate and just the worst fucking idea. Not even what Ian fully had in mind. When Mickey pulls back, they’re both breathless. Mickey weakly punches Ian’s side. 

“God fucking damnit.” 

“Yeah,” Ian agrees. “That was stupid. Fuck. I really want to take you to bed.” 

“Take me to—where do you GET this shit?” 

“No,” Ian flat out giggles. “I mean literally,” He gives in to his baser desires for a moment and brushes his mouth over Mickey’s in a few quick passes. “I think about it. Just having a fucking bed. What we could do in it. And sleeping together. I’d fucking love to wake up with you.” 

Mickey _maybe_ whimpers at this very domestic scene Ian is painting. At the very least, he makes a sound that suggests he doesn’t hate the idea. Ian grins, pressing into him again, but he forces himself to keep things soft and romantic this time. Kisses Mickey the way he wanted to in the alley. Deep and heartfelt. Brushing a thumb along his cheekbone. “I wanted to tell you something.” 

“Yeah,” Mickey breathes. 

“I love you, too.” 

“God. You are _such_ an asshole.” 

Mickey’s smiling, and Ian rubs at the back of his neck again. He can feel Mickey relax a bit as he leans into him. 

“You gonna be ok?” 

“Always am.” 

Not exactly true by Ian’s measure. But he doesn’t fight it. “Wish I could stay.” 

“No you fucking don’t.” 

He does, though. That’s one thing is for certain. Ian always wants to be with Mickey. 

***

Monica is _extremely_ into the fundraiser. Monica, Ian notes, is pretty into everything right now. She rushes him out the door, set to take the car—car?—and Carl to make copies. He weasels out of coming with by telling her he’s got to talk to Kevin about doing this at The Alibi. He expects to just talk quick over the phone, but Kevin insists on a sample of the goods, so he ends up heading down the street with a few cookies in a ziplock. 

“Ian! My man!” Kevin greets Ian at the door with an alarming amount of enthusiasm. “What’s happening? Other than the knocked up girlfriend.” 

“Ah, that's mostly what’s happening right now. And Monica and Frank shit.” He pushes the cookies into his hands. “Is this a taste test? Like you need to make sure we’re up to standard?” 

“Nah, man. Just wanted to get you over here.” 

Ian is preoccupied enough that it takes him a hot second to realize what Kevin’s just said, and in that time, V appears. “Ian!” 

“Hey,” he smiles, but he can feel the awkwardness grip him. “I was just about to ask Kevin about using The Alibi so that we can throw a fundraiser?” A creeping sensation is moving up his spine. Like he’s just walked into a trap. 

“Yeah, yeah. No problem,” Kevin waves a hand. “Happy to do it. No one needs any more Gallaghers running around.” 

“Would you like a drink, honey?” 

“I… I should probably get back and help. We still have a lot of stuff to do.” 

V smiles. Warmly. Broadly. Determinedly. 

“Ian. Are you bonded?”

_Shit._

Fifteen minutes later they’re all sitting around the Ball’s coffee table, with the cookies spread out on a plate and Ian’s coat hung up by the door. Ian’s stomach is doing somersaults. 

“So we were 95% sure after you said that thing about the lights going on,” Kevin explains, handing Ian a beer. “That was some apt metaphor shit. But it can’t be Mandy, cause I’ve seen her mark and it sure as fuck isn’t on you.” Kevin flops down on the couch. “And Fiona clearly has no idea. So. We wanted to ask.” 

“Not to get in your business, Ian,” V perches on an ottoman, a hell of a lot closer to where Ian has settled on the floor. “Just… that must be a lot for you. And it looks like you're handling it alone.” 

Ian takes a healthy swig of his beer, trying to decide where to start. He settles on stating the obvious. “Mandy and I aren’t really together.” 

“You’re not.”

“No. It was her idea. It’s just… for show. Like… a beard.” 

“Oh, shit!” Kevin looks delighted. “You gay?” 

This looks like slightly less of a revelation to V, who just raises her eyebrows. He cannot fucking believe this. He has been careful. He and Mickey spent the whole summer together and no one had known a thing. He hadn’t told anyone about the bond and he hadn’t told anyone he was into guys. Now he’s about to come out for the third time this week. 

“Yeah,” Ian says on an exhale. “I’m gay. Mandy knows.” He flicks his eyes over to Kevin. “So it’s not my baby, but I still want to help her.” 

“Yeah, it’s cool, man. I’m not changing my mind about anything.” 

“So, your soulmate,” V presses. 

_Fuck fuck FUCK._

“I can’t tell you who it is. I just can’t.” 

“Mmm. He in the closet, too?” 

“He’s, like, why I’m in the closet, mostly. At home, at least.” 

“Ian, honey,” V leans in, and she’s all kindness and good intentions. “We just wanted to make sure you had someone to talk to. I was almost 30 when I bonded with Kev. It was still a mindfuck, let me tell you. If you gotta keep quiet to protect your soulmate, I get that. Lots of people out there think our bond is a clerical error, too. 

Ian hadn’t thought of that, but of course, that would be true. Less true than it used to be, but the world never seemed to have a shortage of assholes ready to decide other people’s bonds didn’t count, just because they didn’t like them. 

“We won’t say a thing,” V reassures. “The whole last month, I haven’t breathed a word of it to Fi. But I don’t like you being in this all by yourself. So if you got questions, or you need some help -- Me and Kev are here for you.” 

Ian’s never had a great poker face, and he knows that V will be able to see how much those words hit him. Because fuck. He isn’t in this alone, but he feels so responsible. Mickey’s got enough going on just trying to survive. And Ian knows he’s trying at school and thinking about how they can get out. He also knows they can’t right now. There’s nowhere for them to go and it would fuck everything up. Make it even harder to build a life together. Ian is used to going it alone, though. It’s never even occurred to him to look for help. But now that it’s being offered… 

“It’d maybe be good to talk to people who know what it’s like,” he admits. “Just… Monica and Frank are a fucking mess. And I can’t really talk to them anyway.” He shoots a cautious look at V. “But no one can know. Like no one.” 

“Don’t even tell us his name,” V insists. “I’ve mostly just been worrying about what you’re dealing with. Bonds can be tough. Especially when you’re young.” 

“Yeah,” Ian gives a mirthless laugh. “Everyone says that.” 

He takes a deep breath, and he starts to talk. Tells them it was an accident. They didn’t know they were a match and they found out through a touch. Weren’t even friends before it happened. He avoids all identifying features, so he doesn’t tell them about juvie or the Kash & Grab, or how Mandy is his soulmate’s sister. Just talks about how it feels, how hard it is to be apart. How much Ian hates being able to feel how scared he is, even if that has been a little better lately. V just listens, frowning occasionally. 

“What’s the bond feel like? Is it tight?” 

Ian falls into confusion. “Tight?” 

“There are different bond intensities. You said it’s hard to be away from him?” 

“Yeah, I don’t like it,” Ian admits. “I mean, I can do it. It just sucks.” 

“Sucks how?” 

Both Kev and V look concerned, so Ian takes another good pull of his drink. This is surprisingly awkward to talk about. 

“Just… Like. I don’t know. I feel twitchy, I guess. Gets worse the longer we’re apart.” 

“You never feel at peace or just at home?” 

“Well, yeah. All the time. But that’s when I’m with him. But the rest of the time it’s more like I’m always itchy, you know? And I can’t scratch.”

“Jesus, Ian,” Kev looks surprised. “That sounds fucking terrible.” 

“I mean. I guess I’ve gotten a little used to it. But when we see each other after it’s been a while and we can touch, I almost feel high. I think he does too. It feels like getting a hit of something.” 

“Yeah,” V confirms. “That sounds like a real tight bond. Like it’s barely letting you breathe.”

“Ok, but it’s just what it’s like to have a soulmate, right?” 

“Mmm. Not really. I mean, I’ve heard of it. Some people, it’s not like that at all. Some people, you know, it’s chill. It’s easy.” 

Ian can’t even imagine that. He swallows, his face heating. “Do you think something’s wrong?” 

“Oh, honey,” V chuckles and she and Kevin share a look. “No. Let's look at this, Ian. You got … first love. You got soulbound at 16 years old—”

“15.” 

“Lord help us. 15. First sex?”

“Ah, no.”

“Ok. Best sex?” 

“Definitely.” 

“And you got a secret that’s just between you. Can’t tell anyone about your bond.” 

“Right.” 

“So,” V starts to count on her fingers. “Two gay teenagers who bond early, are each other’s first loves, have the best sex of their lives together, and have to sneak around and keep their bond a secret from everyone but each other, lives in actual peril... and you say the bond feels _intense_.” 

“Yeah.”

“Can you see why that makes sense?” Kevin asked. 

I mean. He couldn’t, really.

“Oh, fuck me, Ian, Of course you can’t. You’re 16!” 

“Kev’s right,” V nods vigorously. “Teenagers never want to hear this, but honest to God, Ian. The whole thing about being 16 is that you have the perspective of a teenager and you don’t even know what that means. When you get older, it gets a lot easier to spot bullshit and a lot harder to get excited about things. But that means you know that most things aren’t gonna matter, long term. That lots of things will happen to you, and the shit that seemed important to you at one point will turn out not to make much of a difference at all. Right now, you’d find being in love consuming no matter WHO it was. Because it would be the first time you’d ever had that. But loving a soulmate, being kept away from that soulmate, having to keep all these secrets—it’s turned up the volume for you because you’re young, you’re star-crossed, you have no role-models—” 

“Ahem.”

“Until today, you had no role models to advise you and you’re in a strictly ‘us against the world’ relationship. Now, how the hell is that gonna be anything other than intense? You’re a fucking gothic romance, here. I mean, apart from you both being boys.” 

“Congrats on that, by the way,” Kevin piped up. “Prouda ya.” 

Ian is trying to work out if Kevin was proud of him simply for being gay, or if there is some other aspect when V speaks up again. 

“You got to worry less, sweetie. Sometimes this happens. If you guys listen to each other and find a way to relax a bit, it’ll get better. You’ll have a little more room to maneuver. Look. I will tell you, 90% of what you’re gonna hear about soulmates in school or on TV is total bullshit. Kev’s a bartender. I work with old people. We have heard a million bond stories between us. I’d say… less than half of bonds turn out to be long-term romantic relationships. Me and Kev, that’s what we are. And I hope that’s what we stay because I love him.”

“Love you, too, baby!”

“But here’s what I know. Kevin’s always gonna be my soulmate. And if something changes and we aren’t lifting each other up as a couple, then maybe we gotta seriously consider whether our bond is still a romantic one.”

Ian frowns. “Aren’t all bonds romantic?”

“What did I just tell you? HALF work out. And you know what? That other half? Probably weren’t supposed to be romantic in the first place. Or were supposed to move out of that and into something else. Everyone thinks they’re supposed to want to fuck their soulmate. Live with ‘em. Have a dozen children. I’m telling you, there are 7.8 BILLION people on this earth. That’s almost four _billion_ bonds. How many happy bonds you know? Where you KNOW the people are having a good time?”

“Two, I guess.” Ian does not bother to add that 1.5 of those bonds are in the room right now. 

“Two. Maybe we’re not supposed to take the ‘mate’ part so literally. Not everyone is cut out for monogamy. Not everyone is cut out to live with someone. And you know, those people are probably gonna make good soulmates for each other. But you look at history, you look at what society tolerated 100 years ago—we just had it that people married their soulmates, if they could even find them, and that was the whole story. That’s not the whole story. You’re 16 and you’re in love and you got your whole Romeo and Romeo thing going on. But one day you’re gonna be 56 and maybe your soulmate is the person you live down the street from, and you share custody of a Pomeranian and you make each other happy in a totally different way.”

“I hate that idea.” 

“Because you’re 16 and in love! Ian. Try to look at the _possibilities._ You can love each other in a million ways. Value your bond. Listen to your bond. Don’t try and force your bond to be something it’s not. And for the love of God, be careful. You guys have it bad and I don’t even know how to help you with that. Life is short, but life is long, too. Don’t put yourself in a box.”

Ian gives a slight smile. “You sound like Lip.”

“Well,” V sighs. “Lip thinks having a soulmate is a trap. But maybe Lip’s soulmate is going to be a professional partner or a best friend. He doesn't know. He’s not even entertaining the possibility!”

Ian shakes his head. “I’ve never heard anyone even TALK like that, though.” 

“That’s because we’ve all got a lot of religion and morality in our soul-bonds. The church said for a thousand years that soulmates were sacred and bond mates had to marry, go forth and propagate the earth. But that same church would say you and your boy are an abomination and a perversion. What sense does that make? You’re both men, so the rules are different? If straight people got their bonds from God, where the hell do they think you got yours from? No. If anything this is just proof that the universe _wants_ men to love men, and women to love women, and some people to have a great time over coffee. So why wouldn’t the universe want two soulmates to invent cold fusion together, or just be two moms who talk on the phone for three hours every night and keep each other sane? You know, I got a theory. Thelma & Louise? That’s a movie about soulmates. They wouldn’t SAY that, because you sure weren’t going to sell a Hollywood movie that way in the 90s. But that’s a movie about _platonic_ soulmates. Kate & Allie—”

“Riggs and Murtaugh.” 

Truthfully Ian has never seen Thelma and Louise and doesn’t even know who Kate & Allie are, so Kevin’s contribution is helpful.

“Dom & Brian.” 

“Yes!” Kevin crows. “You’re getting it! You’re all wound up about what we think HAS to happen. Ian. Just breathe. Just go with the flow. It’ll be ok.” 

“Ok, but… no one ever talks about this.”

“Well, not in Southside, they don’t. But Oprah’s done shows on this. Back in the day, it was this crazy idea, but she brought people on to talk about it. Now it’s gaining some traction. You know, the idea that that millions of people are unhappy because they think all bonds have to be MATES.” 

“And all mates have to be bonds.” 

“Honey,” V gestures towards their bookcase. “Can you get the Renee Browne?” 

“Oh, yeah!” Kevin doesn’t even have to stand up, just reaches his giant arm across the room and grabs a book over the shelf. “ _Bonding Boldly!_ This is great.” 

“And you know, privately,” V leans into Ian, lowering her voice. “There’s a lot of rumours that Oprah’s soulmate isn’t Stedman. It’s Gayle.” 

Ian takes the book cautiously. His stomach is starting to churn. He’s seen books about bonds, but they’re mostly pretty stupid. Lots of stuff about predicting who your match is going to be and trying to interpret mark placement and shape. This looked different. Way more like something you’d find in the self-help section of a new age bookstore. 

“Are you guys trying to talk me out of being with him? Like being together with him?” 

“Hell no!” Kevin bellows. “I’m fully Team Soulmates That Fuck, believe me.”

“And I’m Team Everyone Have a Good Time,” V adds, wryly. “Ian. We just don’t want you to be hemmed in. You guys might need to make some tough choices, but I want you to understand: whatever happens, he will always be your soulmate. You will always love him. You can be happy together forever, but you gotta let it be what it is. Not what you think it’s supposed to be.” V’s expression softens. “I mean, I don’t want to speculate, but you two sound like a romantic bond. You sound like a few things. Just read the book. Maybe leave it around for your brother and sister to find. I think it’d help them.”

“But they aren’t bonded.” 

V rolls her eyes. “They both got some fucked up ideas about soulmates. They’ll find out you’re in a bond at some point. Prepare them.” 

Ian didn’t know that Fiona had any fucked up ideas about soulmates, other than the ones he shared. Though maybe that’s what V meant. This whole conversation was like having his brain turned inside out. 

“I’m not sure a book is going to be that convincing to Lip.” 

“Yeah,” Kev sighs. “He’s pretty intense. That’s, like, Bond Denier shit.” 

“No,” Ian shakes his head. “Bond Deniers… they kinda hate women. I guess maybe it makes more sense with what you’re talking about, but they started out as message boards for people who didn’t want to be defined by a bond and then got kinda twisted and taken over. It’s a lot of stuff about how bonds are cages, but it’s mostly that they’re cages because then you’re stuck in them with a woman.”

“Ew.” V scrunched up her nose. Ian felt bad, but at least he’d cleared Lip’s name a little.

“They’re like the more extreme version of the Bond Holders? Those groups who think women are meant to be subservient to their soulmate. Lip’s not like that. He’s just…” 

“Hung up on the wrong girl,” Kev nodded. “That’s not even a bond thing. That’s just gonna be a nightmare.”

Lip’s mark is an equilateral triangle. Neat and tidy, where Ian and Fiona’s are is messy and swooping. Ian had joked many times that Lip’s match was going to be a mathematician. He didn’t seem inspired by the idea, and if Karen was the kind of girl he was into, that probably wasn’t going to change. 

“Ok,” Ian sighs, turning the book over in his hands. “I’ll read it. But…” 

“But you’re in love with your soulmate.” 

Ian nods. V reaches out and puts a warm hand on top of his. 

“I think that’s wonderful, Ian. I really do. But one thing they never talk about is how big that can be -- it’s not like normal first love. It has a lot of weight on it. And it can get overwhelming. So I’m not telling you not to love him. I’m not telling you to feel anything but what you feel. I’m just saying not to let it pull you under. You have a lot of life in front of you. You start feeling like this is getting to be too much, come talk to us, ok? If you need help, or he needs help, we got you.”

***

“$646, in total,” Ian slides into the back booth of The Alibi Room where Mandy is nursing a club soda. “Never doubt a good bake sale.” 

Mandy grins and takes the roll of bills from him. “I feel like the pool tournament might have done the heavy lifting.” 

“We had about a million cookies and we aren’t bringing anything home. You do the math.” 

Mandy nods, still smiling, still fondling the cash. “You’re a good boyfriend.” 

“You don’t deserve to be in this alone,” Ian murmurs. “That’s, like, baseline human decency.” 

Mandy glances up at him. “So. I guess that makes my brother a lucky guy.”

“Because of the decency? Guess so.”

She nods towards the diminishing crowd. “That why you did this? For him?” 

Ian doesn’t need a bond to read the insecurity. “Nope. But you are my bond-sister now. That’s kinda cool.” 

Mandy smiles, a bit shyly. “A brother I can actually stand.” 

“Mickey’s not so bad, you know.” 

“Yeah. I know. Don’t tell him I said that.” She turns her glass on the cardboard coaster a few times. “You love him?” 

“Yup.” 

“Just like that.” 

“I guess.” 

“So like a switch flips.” 

Ian had heard it described like that, pretty much his whole life. But it wasn’t really what he felt. “At first, maybe? But it’s still me and him, you know? It’s not like you’re suddenly in love. It’s more like you’re suddenly connected. Like really connected. And I fell in love with him after.” 

Mandy snorts. _“In love.”_

“Ok, he said the exact same thing when I tried to talk to him about it,” Ian feels his face heat. 

Mandy’s eyes widen. “You said that? To _Mickey_?” 

Mickey had a point. Ian really did say “fell in love” too much. But it was distinct, wasn’t it? He didn’t just love Mickey. He was _in_ love. Wading through it. Like it was a place he lived now. 

“To his horror. But yeah.” 

“It’s hard to imagine something like ‘being in love’ and Mickey together. Like, I can barely imagine him being nice to someone. He’ll threaten to beat assholes up for you if you’re family. But that’s about it.” 

“Mickey’s got a lot of reasons not to be nice to people. Besides. Who the fuck wants ‘nice’?” 

Mandy snorts and idly turns the roll of bills over in her hands. “Just. He’d never have done anything like this for me. No one would.” 

Ian stops himself from knee-jerk arguing with her. And he sure as shit isn’t going to tell her about how deeply this has freaked Mickey out. Mickey isn’t here tonight, but it’s not because he doesn’t give a fuck. It might be that he gives too much of one.

“Don’t sell yourself short, Mandy,” he murmurs, instead. “Do you want me to come with you to your appointment?” 

Mandy’s eyes get glassy and she rests her chin in her hand. “That’s the kind of shit I’m talking about.” 

“Mickey wouldn’t go because he’d think you don’t want him there.” 

“I don’t!” 

“So. He’s being sensitive.” 

“I just hope he’s good to you.” 

Ian smiles in spite of himself. “He’s so fucking good to me.” 

Mandy narrows her eyes. “Is that sex thing?” 

“It’s an everything thing.” Ian shrugs. “Mickey is ride-or-die. Always. I wanna be the same for him.” 

Ian watches those words sink in. For the first time, Mandy seems to get it. “That’s sweet,” she admits. “I can see that.” She pushes back from the table, stretching her spine. “Still think he’s getting the better deal.” 

Ian’s phone goes off and he gives Mandy a pointed look as he flips it open. It’s a text from Lip. Telling him to come home. Monica’s fucked up again. 

“Believe me. He’s not.” 

*** 

This time, when Ian texts, Mickey does run. He doesn’t even have to sneak out of the house, because it’s Thanksgiving and everyone is drunk and exhausted and fought out. Once he gets clear of the front windows, he makes a hard turn towards the Gallagher house and sprints. 

He’s there in about five minutes, like a dutiful fucking soulmate, panting for breath as he reaches the backyard. He doesn’t even get a second to catch his breath, though, because Ian leaps off the back steps and is on him immediately. Hands framing his face, mouth firmly on his, hungry and desperate. Mickey can’t put just one word on what’s going on inside Ian right now, but he’s felt it before. This is fucked up Gallagher shit. Family shit. Probably Monica shit. 

“Ian, what the fuck,” he tries, when Ian briefly pulls back, though he knows there’s not a lot of point. You can’t talk to Gallagher when he’s like this. He’s wound himself up, talked to no one, acted like everything was right as fucking rain, and now he’s coming after Mickey for solace with a laser focus. Either unwilling or unable to explain what’s happening, and desperate for a distraction. Which Mickey will give him. Somehow. 

“Fuck, Gallagher,” he finally manages. “We can’t do this here.” 

Ian nods but leans in for another kiss. Mickey is too susceptible to this right now and has easily forgotten his point by the time Ian murmurs “van” against his lips, and starts to pull them across the yard. And ok, maybe the van was a fucking bad idea last time, but the fog of arousal is thick. 

The door closes a bit too loudly as they scramble in, Ian still reaching for Mickey, pulling him in to kiss after kiss. Mickey decides to go for expediency. He presses Ian back to lean against the wall and goes for his belt. He impatiently shrugs out of his jacket as he settles between Ian’s legs. Nuzzles at his stomach through the layers of clothes, and Ian, in his keyed up state, writhes. His hands sink into Mickey’s hair and he breaths his name with love and gratitude. 

Because Ian needs this right now. For whatever reason, he really needs Mickey. 

When Mickey takes Ian into his mouth, he feels him calm almost instantly. That frantic energy abates as Mickey starts to move, taking Ian deeper. He flicks his eyes up to see Ian watching him. His hands are holding his head, but he’s not looking to take any kind of lead. Just touching Mickey and gazing at him with a mix of adoration and wonder. Like Mickey is performing a magic trick instead of blowing him. 

But. It’s fucking hot watching Ian watch him. Seeing his eyelids lower and his chest starts to heave. Watching him tilt his head back sometimes when the sensations get too much. It turns Mickey the fuck on as if he needed the extra encouragement. 

He watches and feels the pleasure overwhelm Ian. He can see the arousal in his expression, and feel Ian hard against his tongue. And he can read feel wave after wave of heady emotion. And he’s not exactly feeling philosophical now, but he’s wondered, a few dozen times at this point, what love feels like when you receive it through a bond. Because the words that he interprets are usually _happy_ and _warm_ and _grateful_ —but Ian had said that once. That he felt “in love”. Mickey felt his love for Ian deep in his stomach. And a lot of the time he experienced it as yearning. As looking at Ian and feeling so caught by how perfect he was that his insides would clench and he’d think “I fucking love him.” 

It’s hard to imagine it’s the same for Ian. Except that Mickey can see the look on his face, and feel the hands stroking Mickey’s hair, and read the excited, fluttering mess in Ian’s stomach. And then, under that, the relief. When Ian gasps his name it sounds beautiful. His head drops back and his eyes close, and Mickey can feel that strong surge of heat again, mixed in with that frayed, happy mess, and then Ian moans. 

“Gonna come.” 

_That’s the fucking idea._ Mickey redoubles his efforts, knowing what makes Ian feel good, inside and out. He allows himself a soft moan to give Ian that edge of vibration, and then Ian’s back arches, his hips thrusting up helplessly as he goes to pieces. 

He feels really, really good. 

Mickey pulls back to pant against Ian’s jean-clad leg. And holy fuck. Before Ian he’d never thought he’d actually _want_ to give head. He sort of got it as a reciprocal thing, but right now, hard in his own jeans, he’s satisfied and strangely content. Like making Ian feel good is all he really needed out of the experience. 

That’s not really how Ian rolls, though, so Mickey feels him shift. He rubs at Mickey’s head a moment, then tugs at his hair a little, encouraging Mickey to surge up to kiss him again. Ian gathers Mickey against him, one arm wrapped around him, the other hand pressed to his cheek. And this feels good, too. He can feel Ian’s heartbeat and the flood of good feelings. That he’s starting to relax. He’s still upset, but it’s tempered with joy. That he’s got that warmth in his chest that Mickey is starting to interpret as Ian’s version of love. 

He lets Ian kiss him. The urgency has abated and now he’s a little softer but no less passionate. Mickey feels dizzy and happy and uncharacteristically conflicted when Ian presses his hand against him. 

“It’s ok,” he murmurs, going in for another kiss. “I got it.” 

“I want to,” Ian breathes. “I wanna touch you.” 

_Fuck._

Mickey helps Ian open his jeans and sighs into his mouth as Ian’s hand wraps around him. He doesn’t let Ian pull away, keeps kissing him as Ian works him over. Let’s himself get lost because he can do that now. When it gets to be too much, when he’s coming to the edge, he pulls back to draw in breath and gets caught in Ian’s gaze. He doesn’t look away, knowing that Ian doesn’t want him to. It makes it all the more intense when he hits the peak. He finally lets his eyes close as he presses his forehead against his soulmate’s. 

“Jesus Christ.”

He lets himself sag uselessly against Ian while he does what he can to clean them up a bit. Laughs at how wrecked he feels. And now they have to fucking talk. Because something has gone super fucking wrong. 

When he finds the will, Mickey glances around and locates his jacket. He fishes a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lights one without bothering to ask if this a smoking space. The van smells powerfully of both pot and tobacco, and maybe someone has spilled some rum in here since their last adventure. Ian has settled back against the wall, so Mickey slides over, takes an extravagant drag and lies down on his back, head nestled in his soulmate’s lap. They never get to do this. Sex, they can figure out. Cuddling? Fucking unprecedented. Ian, grinning down at him, must be thinking the same thing. 

“Comfortable?” 

“Trying it out. I’ll let you know what I think.” 

Ian’s hand comes to rest against his chest. He rubs slow circles for a bit. 

“Ok,” Mickey sighs. “You gonna tell me what the fuck is going on?” 

“Karen had her baby.” 

That does not match Ian’s state of mind, to Mickey’s way of thinking, but he accepts it. As a start. 

“Ok.” 

“It’s not Lip’s.”

Also something that, to Ian, is good news. “You can tell that just by looking?” 

“He’s Asian. So yeah.” 

Mickey cannot help but smirk. Fucking Lip. So smart and so stupid. “How’d he take it?” 

Ian shrugs. He’s staring hard at a spot on the opposite wall. His hand stills on Mickey’s chest, and after a moment, Mickey puts his own on top of it. The edge of Ian’s mouth twitches and a sharp, stabbing bolt of pain comes through the bond. 

“Monica slit her wrists. In the middle of dinner.” 

“Shit.” 

“She did it in the kitchen. Fiona kinda cleaned up and everything, but you can still tell.” Ian plucks the cigarette out of Mickey’s hand and takes a drag. “Every time I close my eyes, I can see it.” 

“That’s fucked up.” 

He doesn’t have much else to say. Ian’s hard to predict when it comes to his mother and this is not an area of Mickey’s expertise. Mickey’s been able to tell something was up, but since Ian didn’t want to talk about it, he didn’t push it. He knew enough just from the shit with the squirrel fund. 

“She’s bipolar.”

“What’s that?” 

“Mentally ill.” He passes the cigarette back by placing it, carefully, between Mickey’s lips. It’s imperfect and it makes Mickey smile. “It’s why she’s so impossible. Like sometimes she can be kinda great. Like she cares and wants to be with us and wants everything to be fun. And she talks to you like whatever’s happening for you matters. But then things get wilder and weirder and then something awful always happens. Then, after that, she just stops. Like someone hit an off switch. And that’s just if she can be bothered to stick around.” 

“That’s the bipolar?” 

“They used to call it manic depression.” 

Ah. Mickey had heard of that. He takes a drag. “Shit.” 

“Yeah.” 

He feels another one of those Gallagher rushes of warmth. He doesn’t always get where they come from. He tips his head back to try to get a better look at Ian, even though they’re in the dark. “So what does that mean? Like, for tonight?” 

“The bigger the high, the harder the fall, I guess. That shit with the squirrel fund, and… you know. She’d been working on all of us. Trying to reach out and be a mom. Like going out to that club.” Ian brushes a thumb along Mickey’s hairline, eyes focused on just that one thing. “She wanted us to have fun together. That night, she wanted to show me this place she knew and she wanted us to dance and have fun together. I think she wanted that with all of us. But she went way too far, and then she crashed, hard. Couldn’t get out of bed and shit. I tried to get to her to maybe go back to the club with me, but she just… couldn’t, I guess.”

Mickey rolls his cigarette between his fingers. Not the thing to focus on, but… 

“So you did end up going to that club with her?” 

“Yeah, I told you.” 

“Told me you were going to make her happy. Didn’t tell me you went.” 

“Mmm. It was kinda weird without you. Like, good, but…” Ian dips his head down and actually kisses the back of Mickey’s fucking hand before taking the cigarette back. Like Southside Prince Charming. “Missed my boyfriend.” 

“Boyfriend?” 

“Yeah. Aren’t you?” 

“I don’t know if I’m your fucking _boyfriend_.” 

“Ran over here at midnight because I had a bad day, but ok. Not my fucking boyfriend.” 

“I’m your soulmate, man. Why do I have to be your boyfriend, too?” 

He reads a glimmer of hurt and wants to punch himself in the face. 

“Ian—”

“I got this book.” 

Mickey stops. Twists around to look up at him.

“Book.” 

Ian nods, stubbing out the cigarette. “It’s a long story. But it’s about bonding. Like how maybe we look at it wrong. And how soulbonds are always assumed to be romantic.” 

Mickey immediately feels queasy, which Ian must read because he puts a hand over his stomach. It is so intimate Mickey can barely stand it. 

“What the fuck else would they be?” 

“Lots of things. Like, always something important. But maybe not, like, the person you love. Or, I guess… The person you’d marry and live with.” 

“How the fuck does that work?” Mickey can’t take it anymore and sits up. “Your soulmate’s supposed to be the most important person in your life. But you’re gonna _marry_ someone else?” 

“Maybe? Look at Frank and Monica. They’re bonded. And sometimes they’re even happy. But it doesn’t last. They don’t stay together.” 

“Your parents are fucking crazy. Ok?”

Probably not the best word to use, but fuck. Whatever he and Ian are, they aren’t fucking Frank and Monica Gallagher. 

“Frank says the medication she’s supposed to take fucks up the bond. Like I guess they don’t feel each other the same way or something. But then, when she’s not medicated, she’s all over the place and she’s not always paying much attention, and he doesn't like that, either. So I guess they don’t really know how to be together. But maybe they’d be happier if they weren’t trying to be together-together. If they were just friends or something.”

“Are you trying to tell me you want to be my fucking friend?” 

Ian laughs and brings his knees up to his chest. “No, Mickey. No, I don’t.” 

“Then what the fuck are we talking about?” 

Ian fiddles with the cuff of his sweater. “I guess I was just thinking about it. Because I love you. Like… A lot. And I don’t think it’s really because of the bond. I feel like I was always gonna feel like this. And if the book’s right and people try to make all bonds romantic, even if they aren't supposed to be… Then we _do_ get to choose, you know? Like we don’t choose _each other_ , but we choose what we ARE together. And I…” Ian stops and Mickey realizes his heart is beating in his throat. Ian turns his big doe eyes on him. “I’d always choose this. I choose what we have right now. That’s what I want. I don’t want us to be, like, best friends or business partners or anything. I want this kind of bond. And I want it with you.” 

Well. Fuck. 

“So. You want to be my boyfriend.” 

“Yeah, Mickey. I want to be your fucking boyfriend.” 

Mickey stares down at the mess of shabby blankets that cover the lumpy old mattress on the van floor. “Ok. I’ll allow it.” 

When he looks up Ian is smiling at him. It’s simple and sweet and he looks and feels a little bit more grounded and a lot less unsettled. Mickey feels his face heat along with the realization that this is because of him. That he’s _helped_ him. 

God damn. 

Mickey reaches out and taps the back of Ian’s hand. When Ian looks at him questioningly, Mickey pulls on the sleeve of his sweater and moves to lie down. Ian beams and scrambles forward, letting Mickey draw him down with him. Ian’s arm comes around Mickey’s waist and his head rests against his shoulder. There’s a hum of satisfaction and Mickey isn’t even sure which one of them it’s coming from. 

“You got any more fucking revelations for me tonight?” 

Ian groans. “Fucking tired. How’s that?” 

“Not sure that counts.” 

“Hmmm.” 

They lay there together, for a little bit. Mickey feeds off of the silence. Lets himself be lulled by how comforted and warm Ian is right now. But Gallgher being Gallagher, he interrupts it. 

“That book also had a lot of shit about people like… people who bond with their own gender.”

Mickey’s stomach knots immediately. And Ian must know because he turns his face into his chest and tightens his arm around him a moment. But he does not, in the end, drop the fucking subject. 

“You know why they used to call same-sex bonds Aaron Bonds?” 

Mickey shifts, trying to squirm away from his own discomfort. This is shit he does not like to think about. This is the stuff where he feels like he’s getting drawn into something bigger than he can fucking handle. 

“No fucking idea.” 

“It’s because there’s an old antisemitic caricature from, like, the middle ages. Aaron, son of the devil.”

Mickey groans. “Yeah, ok. I know all about that shit. _Your bond is a gift from God. To honour your bond is to honour God._ Unless you bond with another dude. Then your bond is from the Devil and to honour your bond is to honour darkness and sin. Heard it a million times.” 

_“To honour an Aaron bond is to deny a test from God.”_

“Right. We’re chosen to be tested.” Mickey turns his head and leans down to press his mouth against Ian’s. “Guess I fail.” 

Ian smiles, then leans forward to deepen the kiss. They let themselves get lost a bit. 

“I don’t want you to go home,” Ian murmurs against his mouth. “I want you to stay. 

And there’s the real fucking test of an Aaron Bond. Because Mickey wants to give this to Ian and he has no fucking idea how. He can just not go home. That isn’t going to register with anyone. But what does Ian want? Are they going to curl up in his tiny bed together? How do they explain that? Is he going to be presented as Ian’s security blanket/co-worker? 

“Too risky.” 

“I know.” Ian gives him another soft, deep kiss he can feel in the pit of his stomach. “I just feel better when you’re here.” 

Mickey exhales. “Too cold to sleep here.” 

“Mmm hmmm.” 

He’s not wrong. He knows he’s not wrong. But he cups the back of Ian’s head and guides him to lay back against his chest again. Ian’s body relaxes into his and Mickey can feel the calm that floods his soulmate as he curls into him again. He can tell exactly how much power he has over Ian right then. Just how badly his soulmate wants the peace that only comes with being together. 

He can’t leave. 

He’s gonna fail this test.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Mickey reacts to finding out about Terry’s role in Mandy’s pregnancy. There is some very light discussion of Mandy’s impending abortion. Ian discusses Monica’s suicide attempt and bipolar disorder with Mickey. 
> 
> I put the tags on this thing and I'm constantly concerned about how dark they are -- and then I am reminded that they are just what happened on season two of Shameless. 
> 
> Anyway - Giant thank you to everyone who has decided to come along for the multi-chapter version. And also to everyone who left replies and kudos in the last week. I cannot tell you how helpful it is -- both heartening and clarifying -- and I truly appreciate every single one. 💕
> 
>  **Next: Chapter Four: The Cascade** Ned Lishman wants Ian to give him a hand with something.


	5. The Cascade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been eight months since Thanksgiving night. It's summer, it's hot, and Ian invites Mickey to partake in crime. Mickey invites Ian to a sleepover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feeling anxious about this one. But also, this is when the story starts to move. 
> 
> **Content Warning:** This chapter covers the events of episode 3x06 as they occur in this story. See Endnotes for a more detailed description, including how to skip it. The tags are updated.

“I fucking hate that guy.”

Mickey leans his head against the open door to the Kash & Grab drink fridge, watching Ian load in dairy. It’s a hot Monday afternoon in the middle of summer. He’d just taken a break to walk down a few blocks and make a drop. Came back to see that smarmy son-of-a-bitch leaning against the counter, making eyes at Ian while he tongue-fucked a strawberry. It was a fucking lot to take. 

“He’s fine, Mickey.” 

“He’s not _fine_. He’s after you, just to start.” 

Ian snorts and continues checking the dates on the milk. “You think everyone is after me.” 

Ian says that, as if he hasn’t grown several inches and put on more than a few pounds of muscle in the last year. He says it like Mickey makes this shit up. He emphatically does not. It’s getting fucking weird. His sister used to scare the girls away, and frankly, he’s unconcerned with them. But there is a surprisingly high number of viable guys and rich old sleazebags panting after his boyfriend these days. 

“No I fucking don’t. Just the ones who flirt with you and then leer at your ass whenever your back is turned.” 

Ian cracks up at this, which is _infuriating_. Mickey knows he’s risking getting The Speech again because Ian has thoughts on the topic of fidelity amongst soulmates, and why Mickey doesn't need to worry. And ok. They’ve been together nearly a year and a half now. Mickey knows he’s not feeling itchy about it. But he wonders with Ian. Particularly when old men with fancy cars show up and grin at him like he’s on a dinner menu. 

Ian could do better. He knows that. 

The fact that Ian doesn’t _care_ changes nothing. 

“What the fuck is he even doing here?” 

Ian shrugs, moving a couple of cartons to the front of the refrigerator. “Jimmy’s dad.” 

“When was the last time you saw Jimmy here?” 

“He’s got a problem. He wanted to talk to me about it.” 

“You’re fucking Sigmund Freud now?”

Ian raises his eyes and gives Mickey a look of amusement before straightening up to head back towards the front of the store. “No, like a _problem._ He’s getting divorced. I guess he thinks anyone in Southside is looking for a criminal opportunity.” 

Mickey raises his brow, almost unwillingly. “Aren’t we?”

“His wife won’t let him in the house. He wants me to break in and steal some shit for him.”

“Why the fuck is he coming to you with this? You have fucking brothers.” 

Ian shrugs. “First of all, he probably thinks Lip’s too smart. Secondly… He knows me better.” 

There’s a shift in Ian’s tone and a frisson of guilt, which Mickey zeros in on with fervour. 

“Knows you better HOW?” 

Ian picks up a box of penny matches and starts to arrange them so that all the strike pads are facing the same way. “I met him before I knew he was Jimmy’s dad.” 

What. The fuck. 

“Before.” 

“Yeah.” 

“How before?” 

“Mmm. A few weeks?” 

“Uh huh.” 

Ian glances up at him, then breaks into a grin. “Ok. I met him at the club Monica took me to.” 

This is not fucking funny. “You _met_ him.” 

“Met him. He bought me a drink.” 

Mickey’s eyebrows shoot straight up at that and Ian puts up a hand. 

“Bought me and _Monica_ a drink. Because I was at the club with my mother, mostly so that she wouldn’t tell anyone she’d caught me making out with a boy from around the neighbourhood. So yeah. Met an old guy. He bought us a drink.” 

“This story keeps getting worse.” 

“That’s pretty much the whole story. Nothing else happened, turned out he’s Jimmy’s dad. And he wants us to rob his ex-wife. Says we can take whatever else we want. You want in?” 

Mickey is mightily irritated that he’s hearing the whole story about Dr. Fruit Molester now, but he sure as fuck isn’t going to let Ian do something this stupid alone. He folds his arms over his chest and tries to adopt a casual stance while straight fire burns behind his eyes. “Who the fuck else you gonna do this with?” 

Ian sighs, as he sets the box of matches aside. “Mandy? Lip?” 

“Lip’s gone soft. And no way you’re getting my fucking sister involved in this.” 

Ian looks at him expectantly. 

“Fuck. Ok. Can I bring my cousins?” 

Ian leans across the counter and smiles. “You can bring whoever you want.” 

“Flirty motherfucker.” 

Ian bounces his eyebrows. Mickey turns and glances towards the front of the store. It’s been pretty quiet. Linda’s taken the kids to some museum. He sighs and wanders towards the door. Glances back at his smirking soulmate… And locks them in. 

Ian grins like he just won something. He hops out of his seat and heads towards the back of the store, already pulling off his tight-ass t-shirt. 

Linda is either the stupidest woman in the world or the most desperate. She fucking has to know what they’re up to. 

He meets Ian in the back, where Ian is already leaning his shoulders against the wall, arms crossed and looking smug as fuck. 

“I should go find myself some rich old fucker to flirt with. See how you like it.” 

“I’m not flirting with him, Mickey.” 

“Whatever. Try being on my side of it. It’s fucking annoying.” As he talks, Ian is reaching out and reeling him in. Which does feel good. That’s also fucking annoying. 

“I see people look at you. Jimmy’s dad looks at you. You’re hot.” 

Ian brushes his lips across Mickey’s and it is, unfortunately, really sexy. With his big arms and broad chest warm against him. Mickey’s starting to feel a familiar fuzziness overwhelm his bad mood. 

“Fuck you and your patronizing bullshit.” 

“You’re super fucking hot. You just scare people.” Now he gets a light kiss as Ian’s hands slide up the back of Mickey’s shirt. “I think that’s hot, too.” 

There’s no actual sign that Ian isn’t sincere, of course. The lust is real, though that’s nothing new. He scowls anyway. Ian gets this fond fucking smile on his face. Starry-eyed and soft. Mickey can feel himself falling into him kinda against his will. 

“Do you, now?” 

Ian nods, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth. And that does things to Mickey. 

“But you know what? No one’s ever gonna make you feel like I do.”

Heat flashes through Mickey, hard and fast. It’s echoed immediately by a similar surge from Ian. Christ. He lets his forehead thunk against Ian’s shoulder. 

“Fuck you, Gallagher.” 

He feels Ian’s hot breath against his neck as he chuckles. God damn asshole. He lays a wet kiss behind Mickey’s ear, forcing him to bite his lip to avoid openly moaning. This is the worst in so many ways. Ian has him wrapped around his finger and it never gets any better. He never gets used to it. He never stops feeling absolutely helpless once that determined gaze drifts his way. 

“Same for me,” Ian murmurs, dragging his mouth up to Mickey’s ear. “No one is _ever_ going to make me feel like you do.” 

Mickey actually laughs. Laughs out loud against Ian’s shoulder because he _believes_ him. He pulls back, grabbing Ian’s face and kisses him. Puts all his frustration and lust and ever-building, ever-unfolding love into it. It comes right back at him, too. Fuck the Northside rich old guys with fancy cars. They are going to be together forever. 

***

“Ian, what the _FUCK_?” 

“I can explain this!” 

***

The only thing that makes Gunderson House tolerable is Lip. 

Put another way: The only thing that makes Gunderson House survivable is Lip. 

Overstatement. But he knows he’d be having more trouble if he was there alone. Everyone knows Lip is a genius, but they don’t always understand how it translates. Lip’s book smart and all, but he also laps Ian on street smarts. It’s just the speed he operates at. Ian isn’t bad at school and he isn’t stupid about people. But he will always, always take longer to sum a situation up than Lip does. In that it isn’t fucking instant. 

Sometimes this bothers Ian. Right now, he’s just grateful for it. 

Grateful in no small part because tonight he’s going to do the fucking impossible. He’s going to spend the night with his boyfriend. He’s just left Mandy and Lip behind--Mandy giving him the same look she always gives him when she’s covering for him and Mickey. It’s a mix of worry and confusion. Like she still doesn’t totally get it. 

He doesn’t care. He doesn't care most days--though it would be nice if his boyfriend and his best friend got along a little better, given that they're related and all. Tonight, however, he doesn’t care about anything but getting to Mickey’s place. 

In the year and a half since they bonded, Ian and Mickey have spent exactly one night together. Thanksgiving, after Monica attempted suicide, they had slept together in the back of the van. Ian still felt guilty about letting it happen. Mickey understood the risk of coming inside. But in the van, there was always the slight chance Frank might turn up. Ian was banking on that not happening, as much as he was banking on anything. Mostly he was just trying to get the churning feeling in his gut to stop. And he felt so much better once Mickey was there. Like he could find the earth under his feet again. Resting in Mickey’s arms, the persistent thought, _“get up”_ had nagged at him. He answered it with _“five more minutes”_ until, eventually, both of them had fallen asleep. 

Ian had no idea how he would have done that if Mickey hadn’t been with him. He’d felt twisted up and desperate and sad when he’d texted. Less than an hour later, he’d been drifting off to the sound of his boyfriend’s heartbeat. They’d woken up, shivering from the cold, around 5 AM. Ian had done his best to warm Mickey up, not wanting to surrender to something as basic as weather, but it had been no use. They’d snuck out of the van, stolen a goodbye kiss just inside the kitchen door, and then crept off to their respective bedrooms. Ian had felt giddy as he snuck up the back stairs. He had crawled into his bed, his brain just reeling _MickeyMickeyMickey._ There was a lot fucked up in his life but he had Mickey and Mickey loved him and one day they would figure it out. One day. Until then, he was just going to be Mickey’s goddamn boyfriend. 

That’s how he thought about Mickey after that night--In his head. No one but Mandy knew about them, still. He’d ended up reading Kevin and V’s book a few times over, but he did _not_ leave it out for Fiona and Lip to find. It had actually helped. A lot of it was pretty philosophical and not anything he cared about. But now he knew some stuff. He and Mickey definitely had a “tight” bond. Probably because of a few things. Tight bonds--bonds where mates felt physically or psychologically uncomfortable when they were apart--were somewhat more common with teenagers. They were also more common in situations where the bond received opposition or was under threat. Ian also figured out that, while he experienced physical stress when he and Mickey were apart for too long, Mickey got anxious. He sort of knew that, from juvie, but at the time he thought it was both of them, and he thought it was pretty universal. 

And some kind of discomfort was. 

But Ian was a particularly bad case. He was ok if there was some contact, even just text messages. But when Mickey was on a run out of town and they had to push their tether to its limit, Ian would start to just feel bad. Like his blood sugar was low. Lightheaded and a bit unsteady. It would progress from there to something that eventually left him unable to get out of bed. 

It was weird because he’d always been pretty independent. Most of his problems, he solved himself. He wasn’t used to coming at his life with another person in tow. But God, he wanted to be with Mickey all the time. Even if they were pissed at each other or something--he’d rather be fighting with Mickey than do just about anything that didn’t involve Mickey. 

The book had other things to say. Like that Ian and Mickey’s bond was pretty traditional if you ignored the fact that they were gay. It was a love match. He and Mickey were together to work out how to love each other, per the book’s logic. Ian felt pretty ahead of the game there. They DID love each other. There was no internal obstacle to, Ian’s way of thinking. Sure, stuff with Mickey’s father meant it was a bit messy, but the love part? No problem. 

There was a bunch of stuff about how bonds grow and change over time, and what you need from your bondmate shifts. They might not always be a love bond, blah blah blah--whatever. Ian thought that was unimaginable. If he was supposed to listen and to trust the bond… well, the bond, his soulmate and his own feelings were all saying the same thing: Mickey was his boyfriend. Eventually, he’d be more than that. That was the type of soulbond he had. 

Putting a word on it--a word they agreed on together--had a calming effect on Ian. He likes thinking of Mickey that way. It feels a little normal. And a little temporary--in a good way. Like it’s a step along the way. Thinking about it that way helped him get out a little from the weight of being bonded. To stop looking at it like a challenge he had to meet and start looking at it like…. Just being with someone. Having a boyfriend. 

Mickey thinks it’s ridiculous, how much Ian likes this word. He regularly rolls his eyes, though it doesn’t cover the blush. Things have been _good_ since that night. The winter was sort of rough. They’d started to bend their rules about sex at work pretty frequently once the snow fell. And probably took more risks than they should. They were still careful… but he’d snuck Mickey into the house a few times when no one was home and Mickey had let him, even if he refused to fuck in a room without a lock, which limited their options. They’d started acknowledging that they were friends to Lip and Fiona. Since Lip and Mandy were a thing now, Ian mostly just owned that he spent a lot of time with Mickey. They worked together. It was nothing. 

He still wasn’t out. 

Luckily no one asked many questions, and between school and work, they got plenty of time together. It had been a while since Ian had experienced the tense, unsettled feeling he got when they were apart for too long. Mickey was tightly woven into the centre of his life. Eventually, someone would notice. In the meantime, he skated by, getting ok grades, getting his ROTC commendations here and there, and kicking in his part for the squirrel fund. Honestly, things were pretty mellow.

Well. They had been, before the DFS. Luckily, Mickey tended to roll with shit like this. The only sign that he cared about any of it--including the ass full of buckshot--was the invitation he’d extended. Mickey knew exactly what this was to Ian. It was like Christmas, his birthday and the Fourth of July all at once. He and Mickey might be together all the time, but Ian was low-key obsessed with the idea of something like this. Of getting to be really and truly alone. In a way where they didn’t have to be on guard. Because that was one thing that had never changed. They’d gotten a little more accustomed to the low-grade stress, but the danger hadn’t left. They could never fully ignore it. 

He can see Mickey out on his porch when he turns down Trumbull. When he gets close, Mickey gets up and goes inside. Ian picks up the pace but resists running. He moves quickly, already starting to smile. He vaults up the steps to the Milkovich house two at a time. The door is standing open and Mickey is just inside, arms folded and smirking. Ian crosses the threshold. Mickey closes the door. He closes the door, and they are _alone._

Fully and completely alone. 

It’s a fucking miracle. 

***

“Seagal doesn’t even _have_ a fucking ponytail in this movie.” 

“Will you shut up and watch?” 

“I’m trying, but it’s distracting. No one’s hair is regulation, so he might as well have a ponytail. And while I’m at it, I gotta say, I expected 100% less dancing.” 

“Holy Fuck, Gallagher.”

“And Gary Busey’s teeth. Those are fucking huge. Can you imagine getting blown by someone with teeth like that?” 

“What the fuck do you care about whether or not Gary Busey gives good head? Watch the fucking movie.” 

“I’m just saying. Though that’s probably not the only reason not to accept a blowjob from Gary Busey.” 

“I am _never_ getting high with you again.” 

“Mmm.” Ian twists around, crawling across the couch and up Mickey’s supine body until they are face to face, just inches apart. Ian is smiling. His eyes are surprisingly clear. Mickey feels a bit like prey. 

“Hi.” 

“Hey.” 

And he’s kissing him. Soft, seductive kisses that are clearly aiming at distraction. Mickey sighs and sinks further into the couch, as the TV blares “I Got the Power”. They kiss through the end of that scene and into the next one. It’s unhurried and gentle in a way that it never is between them. They _never_ have time like this. Even in the guise of being “buddies” or whatever the fuck everyone else thinks they are. They’re together constantly, but they’re never really alone. Every kiss and touch has to be hidden because every single expression of affection and the fucking love they feel for each other is literally dangerous. 

He’s been so used to that. It’s always felt normal to him. 

But tonight is different. Ian had turned up and they’d made out in the hallway, pressing each other against the wall and laughing with relief and excitement. And yeah, sex had been their first priority, but now they had hours left together. To smoke and drink beer. To lie on the couch together in ways that allow their bodies to overlap and press against each other like any couple would. To kiss, or to watch the fucking movie, because they can do both. Mickey can feel his brain pulling at an idea. The idea that, in five years or something, this could be normal. They could have a place, far away, where no one could find them. He knows Gallagher doesn’t want that. Will struggle with the idea of leaving his family in a way that Mickey never will. So he just lets himself fantasize. About going somewhere warm, like fucking Miami. Someplace with an ocean and palm trees where they can get normal fucking jobs and a boring, shitty apartment, where they lie around on a broken-down couch picked up off someone’s curb and just do _this._

A kiss comes to its end and Ian settles down again, snuggling against Mickey’s chest to watch the movie. He stays focused this time, but the damage is done. Mickey can’t be bothered with it anymore. So he runs a hand over his boyfriend’s “regulation” hair and watches Ian watch Steven Seagal sneer at lesser men. 

“You think Gary Busey’s hot?” 

Ian snorts. “Only in Lethal Weapon.” 

“So you’re into fucking psychopaths.” 

Ian pinches him lightly. “Obviously.” 

Mickey smirks. “Pass me my beer if you’re gonna lay all over me.” 

“You love it.” 

“Love it more if I had my fucking beer.” 

Ian sighs, leans over and picks up the beer, then reaches for a couple of the pizza rolls. He pops one into his mouth and moves to feed the other one to Mickey. He should find this so embarrassing, but it can’t cut through how happy he is. He takes a bite, grinning like a moron. Ian is smiling back at him and Mickey can feel that fucking amazing loop of happiness coming back at him over and over again. 

This is it, he thinks, as he takes his beer from Ian and they settle back into the couch together. This is what it’s all for. Fucking English essays and working at the Kash & Grab. Staying out of juvie, taking risks with Ian, and every single fucking thing he does to reverse his course and stay close to his soulmate at the same time. He’s fighting for _this._ Because he could live his life here. If the greatest thing he ever does is lie on a couch with Ian Gallagher and watch action movies, he’d be ok with that. It would be enough. 

It would be perfect. 

****

Ian watched most of Under Siege lying with his back against Mickey’s chest, feeling his soulmate's heartbeat steadily, and soaking up as much Milkovich as he could. Mickey was being next level affectionate tonight, trailing his hands over Ian’s arms, or running them over his buzz cut in a way that feels so good Ian could almost purr. Once or twice he even went as far as to press a few light kisses to Ian’s temple. Ian feels so good, so warm and loved, he is almost sorry to see the credits roll on the only movie Steven Seagal has ever made that is rated fresh on Rotten Tomatoes.

Jean Claude Van Damme has three, but Ian isn’t going to bring that up. 

They lay together through the whole of the end credits, reaching the Motion Picture Association of America log at the very end. When they’re kicked back to the DVD menu, Mickey sighs and shifts beneath him. 

“You wanna head to bed?” 

Ian turns into Mickey’s chest to try and hide the smile that is spreading across his face. The back of his neck prickles. He’s wanted this for so long. Spending a whole fucking night with Mickey. It’s a ridiculous fantasy that he blames on the bond. But he fucking thinks about it. Most of the sex they have is opportunistic, and those opportunities tend to have certain things in common. It is almost always in a partly public place. Some dark corner where they can adopt any number of positions that involve at least one of them staying on their feet. It is always fevered and it is always too risky to get indulgent. And Ian wants to indulge. 

Ian hefts himself up and catches the way Mickey is looking at him. He reads a shiver of unease coming from his soulmate and it surprises him. Mickey’s _nervous_. He leans forward and kisses him. He makes it soft and undemanding. Mickey accepts it and settles a little. Ian’s smile creeps back as he pulls away. 

“Yeah. I wanna go to bed.” 

Nerves again! But Mickey is smiling, too, and Ian realizes it’s more complicated than that. This is new for them. And Mickey can tell how into it Ian is. He can probably figure out that he’s feeling capital-r romantic right now. Mickey had asked Ian to stay the night in the most off-hand way, but Ian had gotten it immediately. As much as Mickey made fun of him for talking about how much he wanted to be alone with him in a meaningful way, Mickey never objected to the idea. And Mickey had set this up. Had beer and good weed and had made food. It was as close to a real date as they’d ever had. It was actually as close to a real date as Ian had ever had, full stop. 

Ian reaches out a hand and Mickey rolls his eyes before taking it. He allows himself to be pulled up off the couch, coming to stand inches in front of Ian. The grin is back. Ian still isn’t used to the effect Mickey’s smile has on him. He _loves_ making Mickey smile. He tilts his head to one side, smiling back. 

Mickey lightly sucks his bottom lip. “What?” 

This is Ian’s favourite thing. Feeling Mickey’s nerves and excitement and then watching the flirtatious bravado. This is when he most feels like Mickey was fucking made for him. Like he’s everything Ian could want in one person. He slides a hand around Mickey’s neck, drawing him in. 

They kiss all the way down the hallway. Stumbling and laughing. Ian sometimes pressed Micke against door jams, and they sometimes call each other stupid insults that have taken on the same warmth as any endearment. 

When they get to the door of Mickey’s room, laughing into each other’s mouths, Ian reads a strong fluttering sensation off Mickey that he’s never gotten from him before. He pulls back a little, searching his eyes. 

“You ok?” 

“Why the fuck wouldn’t I be ok?” The words are aggressive, but Mickey sounds breathless. Ian leans forward and nuzzles into his neck. 

“‘Cause it’s a lot.” 

Mickey doesn’t say anything. His hands tighten on Ian’s t-shirt. Ian nudges his mouth against Mickey’s again. Short, hot kisses that are opened mouthed, but too quick for anything deep. Ian has thought so much about having Mickey in an actual bed. He’s had plenty of sex that was about getting off. Plenty. He wanted something else right now. Mickey lets out a soft keening noise. It’s not loud, but it is needy and it goes right through Ian. He pulls Mickey off the door, and pushes it open, practically dragging Mickey into the room. 

They keep kissing. Through all of it. While they undress. When they fall onto the bed together, and then later when they slide between the sheets. The room is lit by one small lamp, but it’s enough. It starts out with laughter and wrestling, but the more they kiss, and the more Ian presses into Mickey, pushing him back onto the mattress, the more things slow. He drags his mouth all over Mickey’s body. Hands, too, exploring as much as they want. And Mickey lets him. He never moves to switch the dynamic and take control. Just let Ian kiss him and touch him, and trace every inch of his skin, even drifting past Mickey’s buckshot injury. Ian pours over him until Mickey is shaking. 

Missionary is fucking sexy when it’s something you never get to do. Mickey, underneath him, wild-eyed and vulnerable, looking at Ian like he’s scared he’s going to disappear… Ian kisses him, again and again as he moves inside him. All he wants is to love Mickey, openly. Even if he is only open about it to Mickey. He wants to show Mickey that he matters to him more than anything. That he wants to hold him, and touch him, and just be together, like this, forever. To show Mickey how much he loves him, wants him, and will always take care of him.

And he whispers a few words once or twice, but he knows Mickey understands. Just like Ian can read that Mickey feels the same way. They don’t really _know_ how people make lives together. But they’re going to figure it out. They each have enough going for them to make it happen. Ian has no doubt. They can make a future together. 

They give that to each other. It’s fucking beautiful. 

*** 

It’s four in the morning and Mickey is awake, staring at the ceiling and thinking about sex. 

He’d lost his virginity young because it seemed like a thing to do. It has been pretty mercenary. Mickey paid attention to the girls in the neighbourhood who got ignored, and it usually got him somewhere. He had more success, at least, than a lot of kids his age. Enough that he felt like he knew something. He’d advise his brothers not to be drooling horndogs because no one likes desperation, but the fact was, it was easy for him to be patient. He was in it for the performance and the reputation. So that his sexuality wasn’t just a blank slate. 

Then, in juvie, he fucked boys. Because it was permissible, even by his father’s weird standard, and relatively easy. He wasn’t any nicer to the guys than he was to the girls, and something about it all made him uncomfortable, but whatever. It was sex. Sex was good.

He’d been unprepared for what he felt the first time with Ian. 

That was when he learned that sex could shake you up sometimes. In good ways, maybe. But even the good ways can leave you staring at the ceiling in the middle of the night. That first time with Ian was the first time Mickey had really let someone else take control of his body. He remembers feeling helpless to resist the urge to surrender. He just wanted Ian so fucking much. He was used to ignoring his feelings about other boys around the neighbourhood. Pushing them down, and getting particularly aggressive with the guys he was attracted to because that would keep them away from him. 

It didn’t work with Ian. And that made him more exciting. So he kept pushing and antagonizing him, secretly delighted when it resulted in more interaction. Told himself that excitement was just the product of being entertained by a somewhat worthy adversary. And honestly. Ian was kinda hilarious, with his speeches about civic pride, and his sad-eyed geriatric boyfriend standing nervously to the side. 

When they bonded, Mickey’s body had taken over because Mickey’s brain had been getting him nowhere when it came to getting what he wanted from Ian Gallagher. And he let Ian fuck him. It was the best sex of his life by a long measure, but it had shaken him the fuck up. 

He’d come to grips with it since then. He was gay. He liked boys, particularly Ian Gallagher. And he liked to take it. Particularly _from_ Ian Gallagher. He was confident that he and Ian had a great sex life. Certainly, in the category of Gay Closeted High School Kids, they were kinda killing it. 

But. He’s wanted something else for a while. And he blames Ian, with his romantic talk about spending a night together. Ian’s starry-eyed gaze, and the way he’d stroke Mickey’s hair when no one was looking. How much Ian liked kissing him. It made him want more, though he had no idea what the fuck that might even entail. He wanted whatever it was that Ian meant when he talked about getting to spend a night together. He wanted it, even though he was reasonably certain the more was going to leave him feeling shaken up again. 

He feels like something had been unlocked. A new level of intimacy now exists between them. What freaks Mickey out is the same thing that freaked him out the first time: How little it had felt like a choice. He’d wanted to know what would happen if he let Ian in like that. To give up control, to just accept what Ian wanted to give him. He’s not sure he could have done that the first year of their bond. As much as Ian has always been able to wring out more emotion and desire and devotion than Mickey even knew he had to give, it felt dangerous to let Ian see how much Mickey wants him. How deep that want goes. 

Even knowing Ian can’t really walk away, it feels risky. 

But. Unease aside, Mickey feels really fucking good right now. Lying on his back, next to Ian, who is sleeping like the dead. Possibly worn out. Just a little. It was too fucking hot to sleep wrapped around each other, though he could tell, Ian had really wanted to. He’d settled for laying his hand over Mickey’s, but barely. Fingers grazing and acknowledging each other and they both fell off the edge of their mutual exhaustion and into a deep sleep. 

Mickey rolls over onto his side and brushes Ian’s fingers, just lightly. Ian doesn’t move. There’s no reason to. He isn’t on alert. He knows he’s safe. _He’s mine_ , Mickey marvels. He says this to himself all the time. Reminds himself. Ian Gallagher -- my soulmate. Chosen for me by whatever is doing the choosing. Everyone else can fuck off. 

He cannot fathom how he got so fucking lucky. 

***

Ian wakes up incandescently happy. 

He’ll remember that later. That day, he wakes up happy in a way he’s never experienced before. In a way that feels like it will go on forever. And for the rest of his life, when he has moments where he’s happy like that--and he does. He has them again--he’ll remember that he was happy like that on the morning of one of the worst days of his life. 

He’ll remember that morning in little snatches of memory that he tries to look away from. Waking up first and lying next to Mickey. Mickey sleepily opening his eyes, rubbing them with his fists in a way that Ian finds fucking adorable. Having sex in the shower, together, for the first time and thinking this cannot possibly be the last, because bathrooms have locks and while it’s kinda awkward, it’s also fun and giggly and he just wants more. 

Mickey makes him breakfast. Hands him a mug of over-strong coffee that they both drink black. The mug has blue flowers on it, which seems incongruous with everything Milkovich. And he makes toast. Buttered, with strawberry jam. Which Ian takes with a grin. He kisses Mickey on the cheek. 

They both laugh and give each other shit as they eat. Ian continues to make fun of Steven Seagal because he likes how much Mickey likes to argue about it. 

He doesn’t want to leave. He’s trying to make the most of every last second they have together. He even brings his clothes into the living room, so that he can get dressed while continuing to talk to Mickey. Mickey, who he spends hours a day with, and still can’t get enough of. 

And he does say, “Alright. I gotta get to work.” He says that. He means that. But he doesn’t go. 

Instead they keep talking, and joking and Ian is teasing Mickey about his shot-up left asscheek, as they wrestle on the couch.

And they start to make out. 

And they strip off their boxers. 

It’s just sex. They’ve had sex five times in the last 24 hours. It’s not new. It isn’t like it was the night before. It isn’t steeped in meaning and full of promise. It’s just because they like it and they feel good and they don’t quite want to say goodbye. That’s why. That’s why they get caught.

The “WHAT THE FUCK?” comes before the door slam. Ian has never moved so quickly in his life. He grabs his boxers and has them on before Terry has him on his back. 

The hits come fast and hard and he can’t think. 

And then Terry is off him and still, he can’t think, he can barely hear, but he knows it’s Mickey. 

When he can finally focus, he sees the gun tucked into the back of Terry’s waistband. He’ll torture himself with that for the rest of his life. He should have grabbed it. That was the thing he could have done. 

Instead he thinks _“gun”._ He thinks _“There are more firearms in my house than drinking glasses.”_

But he doesn’t even get through the door before Terry has the gun on him. 

It’s always Mickey’s hand he thinks about. If he can’t stop himself. Mickey’s hand, reaching up weakly, while Terry pistol whips him. Mickey dazed and barely conscious. 

He never remembers anything he read through the bond. Nothing. And maybe it’s because of that thing Mickey pointed out to him last summer. Maybe it’s because both of them were feeling the same thing. 

_I shouldn’t have said he’d kill me. I don't know what he’d do._

They’re gonna find out. 

****

Ian is so far off the map of heterosexuality that he’s initially relieved when the Russian Terry summoned arrives and it’s a woman in a mini dress and not some former KGB operative that Steven Seagal would fight in a movie that only has 23% on Rotten Tomatoes. 

That is the moment where he first reads Mickey again because that’s not at all what is coming off of him. It’s a sharp, nearly hysterical sensation. Mickey exhales with an edge of a laugh. 

“That one.” Terry points at Mickey. 

And then Ian gets it. 

And he can’t. He _can’t._

“She’s gonna fuck the faggot out of you, kid.” 

He knows Mickey wants him to stay still. He’s barely looked at him, but there’s a lot of worry. Ian knows Mickey well enough to know it’s directed at Ian. The Russian pulls off her dress, naked underneath, and Ian sees the determined look on Mickey’s face. Stealing himself. 

But he can _feel_ the despair. 

“No.” 

“She’s gonna ride him till he likes it, you fucking queer,” Terry sneers at Ian. “And you’re goddamn gonna watch.” 

“No,” Ian is on his feet. He’s fucking panicking. “No, don’t.” 

“Ian.” Mickey’s voice is low and warning. Ian knows what he wants. He wants Ian to sit the fuck back down and just let this happen. 

But he can’t. He can’t watch this, he can’t feel Mickey go through it, he can’t let it happen. Terry’s already advancing on him, gun raised. “You think this is a fucking debate, kid?” 

Ian is shaking and it isn’t from fear. It’s pure adrenaline, as he reaches down to the waistband of his boxers.

“Ian, fucking don’t,” Mickey moans. 

He does. He pulls down the waistband past his hip while Terry stares at him in startled outrage. Just fucking pissed that this is happening, but also not getting it. Not having any idea what the fuck Ian could possibly be doing. 

For a hot second Ian worries Terry doesn’t pay enough attention to his kids to even know their soulmarks. It’s not like Mickey’s is out in the open very often. 

But then he sees it. Then it connects. And Terry Milkovich loses his fucking mind. 

He roars. He fucking leaps over the couch and it’s not a graceful landing. Ian should run, but he can’t leave Mickey, and then Terry has his ankle and he’s pulling at him and Ian is kicking, trying to get free right as he’s yanked down to the floor. He hits his head, hard, on the landing and is seeing stars as Terry comes to loom over him. Again. Again, right over him, but this time his face is purple. 

“I WILL FUCKING KILL YOU! FUCKING KILL YOU, YOU AARON BOND MOTHERFUCKER!” 

Ian knows Terry’s screaming because he can see his face and spittle is hitting him, but he can’t hear over the ringing in his ears and he can’t breathe with Terry’s hands wrapped around his throat. He’s pressing, hard, and Ian can barely move. He has his hands on Terry’s wrists, but there’s no point. There’s no point, he can’t get the upper hand and there’s no hope. He’s sitting right on Ian’s chest and he can’t fucking move, can’t hear, can’t breathe, can’t see. Just can’t. 

But somehow he hears the click. He hears the gun cock. 

“Get the _fuck_ off of him.” 

Mickey isn’t steady on his feet, but he doesn’t have to be. He’s got the gun inches from Terry’s head. The gun Terry easily could have shot him with the second he saw that mark, if he hadn’t gone primal and tried to kill Ian with his bare hands. 

“You gotta be fucking kidding me.” 

“Just fucking move. Let him go.” 

Terry releases Ian’s neck and the air rushes back into his lungs. He chokes and coughs and twists under Terry, as his body drags the air back in and out in desperation. 

“How the fuck you think this is gonna end, Mick?” 

Ian wants to look up. Wants to say something, wants to see Mickey’s face, but he can’t do anything right now but breathe. 

“Just let him go. You don’t need this on your fucking record. Let him go and I’ll sever the bond.” 

And now Terry is moving. Ian twists further away. He wants to scream. He wants to tell Mickey to fuck off. _Don’t say that._ Even as leverage. Even right now, when he’s crawling across the floor to get away from a man who just tried to murder him. 

He still can’t. His body is wracked with pain. Not sharp, but a dull, overwhelming ache. His head is spinning and it hurts so much it seems unreal. He can’t get enough air. His eyes open and he struggles to focus. 

The Russian is still completely, totally and utterly naked. She looks mildly concerned. 

“You think you can do that shit and fix this? You got a motherfucking Aaron Bond. You’re fucking marked.” 

“Doesn’t fucking matter,” Mickey spits back. “What the fuck do you care? I won’t see him again. No one has to fucking know about your ‘AIDS monkey’ son. It’s done. I will fucking finish it, ok? Shoulda done that from the beginning.” 

“Well, you got that fucking right.” 

“Ian!” 

It’s Mickey. He has to sit up. He has to. 

He manages, instead, to turn his head. 

“Get your fucking clothes on, man. Get out of here.” Mickey gestures towards The Russian with the barrel of the gun. “You, too.” 

The Russian, having not been recently beaten or strangled, takes two steps on her spiked heels and picks up her dress. Ian struggles to get into a kneeling position in the time it takes her to pull it back on and looks up at her. 

He fully cannot comprehend standing up. 

The Russian bends down and pulls at one of his arms. “Get up,” she snaps at him like he can be ordered into compliance. Like he isn’t already trying. 

“Dad,” Mickey’s voice is impossibly firm. “Just let him go and I’ll end it. Ok? It’ll be done. I’ll go back to banging chicks. I’ll be a good fucking soldier. You think you’re gonna fucking murder a Gallagher in our living room and nothing’s gonna happen? He’s Mandy’s best friend, for Christ's sake.” 

“How the fuck am I gonna know if you do this bond severing bullshit?”

Mickey leans forward, gun pointing straight between Terry’s eyes. “The fuck you care if I never see him again? What’s the difference? I can fucking end it. You don’t have to deal with the bullshit you almost caused by killing him. You let him go, I will fall back in line. What are you gonna do? Have Iggy run shit for you? How long before he’s back in jail because he sold to a fucking cop again?” 

Terry's expression is malevolent, but there’s a fucking evil glint in his eye now. On his knees, with his own son pointing a gun at his head, Terry looks like he just won something. 

“I let him go,” Terry growls, “And you fucking do what you’re told. You’re on goddamn probation in this house. You got that?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, I got that.” 

“Good. Now give me my fucking gun.” 

Mickey shakes his head. “I’m not a fucking amateur. They leave first.” He takes a few shuffling steps over to Ian, eyes still fixed on Terry. “Come on. Get up.” 

“Mickey,” Ian tries. 

“Don’t fucking look at me like that,” Mickey grabs Ian’s arm and hoists him up with an impressive show of strength. “Get dressed and get the fuck out of here.” 

Ian’s head is swimming. He knows he has to move. He has to move and not say anything. But he looks at Mickey, helplessly. 

“I never wanted it.” Mickey looks him dead in the eye. “You know that. You fucking know that, Ian. You knew how I felt from minute one.” 

Ian just stares. And ok. Mickey can say this. He’s not stupid. He knows what’s going on. 

But he can’t feel the lie.

He looks for it -- that sign that this is a fake-out and Mickey is saying what he needs to say. He looks for the things he’s so used to reading from Mickey. The concern, and the warmth and the fucking _love._ All he gets is rage. Cold and hard and determined. 

“Mickey.” Ian tries to suppress it, but there are fucking tears in his eyes now. He shakes his head. “Don’t do this.” 

“It’s fucking done. Get your clothes and get out.” 

*** 

The sun is shining. Ian can barely absorb that he’s gotten as far as the sidewalk outside the Milkovich house. He looks up at the sky and blinks. 

“You stay away.” 

Ian glances over. The Russian is still here. 

“You can walk?” she demands. “Yes?” 

Can he? 

“Yes.” He answers just so that she’ll go away and leave him alone. 

“Listen,” she steps forward and Ian’s brain is moving too slow to even step back. She has very red cheeks. Too much make-up. “Men like this, they do not care about soulmates. Is nothing to them. You stay away. You want soulmate to be safe? You stay away.” 

She turns on her heel and strides off down Trumbull. 

He has to go to work. 

***

“Where the FUCK have you been?” Linda greets Ian with absolute fury. He’s probably late. He’s probably very, very late. 

Ian looks at her, dazed, and tries to come up with an answer. 

Then he vomits. 

Huh. Interesting. 

Linda shrieks, but Ian can’t really take it in. He has to get the mop. This isn’t the first time someone’s vomited in the Kash & Grab. At least this time it’s his own puke. He starts towards the back and immediately stumbles into the fruit display. 

“Are you DRUNK? What is WRONG with you?” 

And, what, really, is he going to tell Linda? Linda will just yell like she always does. She’s still yelling at him as he heads towards the back, walking alongside him, behind the counter. God, his head hurts so much. He doesn’t even realize he’s stopped to lean against the drinks fridge until Linda yanks his arm. He looks up, almost baffled that this is still happening. 

“IAN,” she’s not so much yelling now as speaking emphatically. “Give. Me. Your. Phone.” 

Does he have his phone? He reaches into his jeans pocket and … Yeah. Phone. He hands it to her, dumbly. 

Linda does something strange. She puts a hand to his face, just lightly. She’s frowning. Ian closes his eyes. The next thing he’s aware of is her voice. 

“Fiona? It’s Linda from the Kash & Grab. You need to come get your brother.” 

***

“How the fuck did this happen?” 

“You have to calm down.” 

“Calm DOWN? Look at him!” 

Lip is really wound up, Ian observes from his seat at the Gallagher kitchen table. He lifts his eyes to V, who is standing directly in front of him, hands clasping his face, and gazing down at him like she’s peering into a microscope. 

“I don’t know,” she says, over Lip’s continued ranting. “I think he might have a concussion. Ian? Did you hit your head?” 

“Did he hit his head? Someone beat the fucking SHIT out of him!” 

No, Ian thinks mildly. Someone beat the shit out of Mickey. He got off kinda lightly. Though, yes, his head hurts. A lot.

“Ian, sweetie.” Fiona now. “Can you say something? You’re kinda freaking us out.” 

God, he’s so tired. He just wants everyone to stop talking at him so he can go to sleep. 

“His pupils don’t look right,” V confirms, stepping back. “And like Lip said, something obviously happened. I think you gotta take him to see someone. I’d say the clinic, but head injuries are pretty unpredictable. Maybe go to the ER? They may want to admit him.”

“ADMIT him?” Fiona looks shocked. “V, he’s in care! I don’t even know how that would work!” 

Lip snorts. “Hey, maybe it’s all on the state of Illinois right now.” Ian flicks his eyes over to his brother and Lip catches it. Strides over to him, bending right into his face. “What was it? Is this some fag bash? Is that it?” 

Fiona’s head snaps up. “Fag bash?” 

“I’ll make them fucking pay, Ian. Just tell me who it was.” 

He almost wants to laugh at the big brother overprotectiveness. He maybe does smile a bit. 

“Ok,” Lip straightens up. “So you’re in there.” 

He really should start answering these questions, but he’s just so fucking tired. He can’t stand the idea of talking about this. Any part of it. And every single question would just lead to more. He glances past his brother to see V leaning against the outside door, her brow knit.

“Ian,” Fiona redirects her attention. “You feel like you can stand up? You wanna come with us down to the clinic?” 

V sucks her teeth. “I feel like he should see a doctor. Like, a good one.” 

“Concussions, you’re not supposed to sleep, right?” Fiona really does look terrified. “How’s that gonna work at the group home?” 

“I can wake him up,” Lip is back to pacing. “Fuck. FUCK.” 

“Lemme call Jimmy. Maybe his Dad’ll come by. He kinda owes us. Did I tell you he was doing full-on kitchen surgery on Mickey Milkovich’s left asscheek when DFS showed up?” 

“Where’s Mandy?” 

Everyone stops dead and their eyes snap to him. 

“Mandy?” Lip darts forward. “Why? You wanna see Mandy?” 

They really are talking to him like he’s a five-year-old who had a nightmare. 

“I don’t know where my phone is,” Ian mutters. “Can you text her?” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Lip is right on it. “Whadda you want me to say?” 

“She should go home.” 

Lip freezes, thumb hovering over the keypad. “That’s it?” 

Ian nods, slightly. Lip and Fiona exchange a look. 

“I’m calling Jimmy,” Fiona announces and heads into the living room. 

He doesn’t have his toothbrush, Ian realizes. He didn’t get his toothbrush out of Mickey’s bathroom. And Mrs. Gravely’s lawn… 

“Yeah,” Lip is backing away, phone still in his hand. “Yeah, ok. I’ll call Mandy.” 

Lip ducks out the back door and now Ian is alone with V. She checks the perimeter before she comes forward. Fingers under his chin, now. 

“You got some contusions on your neck. Looks like you’re gonna have some pretty bad bruising.” 

Ian exhales. Sounds about right. It fucking hurts to swallow. 

“This about your soulmate?” 

V’s questions are at least gentle. And all he has to do is nod.

“But it wasn’t him, right? Someone else?” 

Another nod. His eyes sting. “It’s over,” he whispers to her. 

V shakes her head, but her eyes are shining, too. “It’s never over.” 

***

His father had beat the shit out of him the second the door closed. Mickey knew that would happen. You don’t pull a gun on Terry Milkovich and just walk away. 

He’d taken it. It was faster that way. 

When he was satisfied that Mickey was sufficiently kicked into submission, Terry had flopped down on the same god damn couch where Ian had been fucking Mickey not even an hour earlier and lit a cigarette. Then he tossed the pack and the lighter Mickey’s way. Mickey had grabbed it and managed to crawl to the wall, curling up against it. He pulled out a cigarette and smoked it, shakily, still dressed only in the navy blue boxers, and looking every bit as defeated and left for dead as he felt. 

He couldn’t even connect to the _idea_ of Ian right now. He’d tried. When he eventually made it back to his room and collapsed into his bed, he’d closed his eyes and sought to replay moments with Ian. He did this all the time, particularly when things were really bad at home. Get somewhere alone, where no one would bother him, and just drown himself in the knowledge that he had a soulmate, who loved him, and cared about what happened to him. It comforted him like nothing else ever had. 

Now he feels nothing. 

He wondered if that was best. If he could just wipe it all away. Forget it had happened. Just live his whole life like no one had ever loved him like that. 

All the adrenaline is gone now and it’s left him feeling empty. Mickey pulls a pillow into his chest, curls up and closes his eyes. 

“Hey,” there was a sharp rap at the bedroom door. “You alive in there?” 

Mandy. Fucking great. 

“Go away.” 

“Can’t.” She pulls the door shut behind her and the room falls back into shadow. Fuck. He must have fallen asleep. It’s gotta be, like, 7:00. “Lip’s all freaked out. Ian’s got a concussion or something. And apparently, the only thing he wanted was for Lip to tell ME to go home.” 

Mickey feels a hard, painful tightening in his chest. “How bad’s the concussion?” 

“Dunno. Lip says he’s pretty out of it. Won’t talk.” Mandy’s bottom lip trembles and Mickey watches her pull back from the edge of tears by sheer force of will. “Something pretty fucked up happened to him. You wanna tell me what it is?” 

“Dad caught us.” 

“Fucking obviously.” 

“Ian let him know we’re a bond.” 

And here is one person he doesn’t have to explain a single fucking thing to. The colour drains from Mandy’s face. 

“Fuck.” 

“Yeah.” 

“He’ll fucking kill him!” 

“Yeah. He tried.” 

He can’t say more right now. It just won’t come out. He realizes he’s still clutching the pillow, like a kid with a stuffed animal. He struggles up into a sitting position, just because he doesn’t want his sister to see him lying fetal in the bed, hugging the pillow his boyfriend used last night to his chest. 

Ex-boyfriend. Probably. 

Mandy takes a cautious step forward, peering at Mickey. He ducks his head, not into the examination. 

“Jesus, Mick. How the fuck did both of you walk out of there alive?” 

It’s closer to the truth that they crawled. But he doesn't want to talk about that, either. So he shrugs. “Said I was done with him.”

“But you were lying, right?” 

He doesn’t know. He can’t think about that right now. Ian is with the Gallaghers and seeing doctors and that is comparatively safe. His family will take care of him. That’s something Ian’s got. Ian will be ok. He’s sure of it. 

“You said it, Mands. He’ll kill him.” 

“But he’s your soulmate.” 

“I know.” 

“You're supposed to spend your life with him!” 

“I fucking _know,_ Mandy!” Mickey’s whole head throbs, his wounds at odds with getting fucking angry. Which is just one reason to end this conversation. 

“You should be with him.” 

Mandy says this like she’s a kid who just found out Santa Claus doesn’t exist. More sad than pissed and it’s maybe the worst thing he could hear right now. 

“I don’t think he wants me anymore.” 

“Why the fuck do you think he’s sending me home? It’s to fucking check on you.” 

“Well, then, it’s not fucking good for him anymore.” He pulls in his breath, carefully. “I don’t know how else to keep him safe.” 

Mandy lets that one lie. Just stands at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, staring down at the floor. Mickey hugs the pillow closer to his chest. He can feel a deep well of emotion surging up. It’s painful. Literally, aching in his chest, his jaw, the back of his throat. 

“So what do you want to do?” 

Mickey just shakes his head. 

“Do you want me to tell him something?” 

Yes. Tell him to stay away. Tell him to run. Tell him he’s the best thing that ever happened to me and I’m sorry he got such a shit deal in return. 

“Mickey. He loves you.” 

That tight aching inside him surges again and it’s blinding. Mickey bends, burying his face in the pillow and screams. And once he starts he can’t stop. This is fucking agony. Ian’s face, his gasping for breath, the fact that he could barely stand. _Don’t do this._

He doesn’t know how long it goes on. Maybe minutes. Maybe seconds. But when he lifts up again, he’s spent, his head feels like it’s going to explode, and Mandy is looking at him like he’s lost his mind. And maybe he has. He flops back onto his side and now he doesn't care how it looks. He buries his face in the pillow and breathes. 

His sister leaves. Mickey tries to just concentrate on breathing and not how much his whole body hurts, or how much he just wants to go back 24 hours, because if he had it all over again he’d change nothing except that morning. Nothing except for the part where they got caught. 

“Hey.” 

The _fuck._ Mickey raises his head and glares at Mandy blearily. Who the fuck does he have to kill to get some time alone? 

Mandy walks over to the bed and pushes a Flintstones tumbler with an amber liquid in it under his nose. 

“What the fuck is this?” 

“Brandy. Drink it.” 

Fancy. “Why?” 

She shrugs. “People give to people when they’re freezing to death in movies. Just drink it.” 

Mickey swallows it down in one gulp. It burns. He hands the empty glass back to her and notices she has a little red pouch under her arm. 

“What’s that?” 

“Swiped a first aid kit awhile back. It comes in handy and your face is fucked up. I wanna be able to tell Ian you’re at least in one piece. Come on.” 

She puts out her hand to help him stand up. And that’s when Gallagher turns up for him, rocketing him back to the night before. To Ian, all intent and seductive, pulling him up so that they stood chest to chest. He’d normally smack Mandy’s hand away but… He thinks about Ian. He thinks about her getting to talk to him. He thinks about what might help keep Ian safe. 

“Ok,” he groans. “Fucking fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warning:** This chapter deals with the events of 3x06 as they occur in this verse. 
> 
> There are several homophobic slurs. 
> 
> The descriptions of Terry’s violence are not graphic, but they are accurate to what happened on the show and heavily reference Terry punching both boys, and pistol-whipping Mickey. 
> 
> This chapter also features a threatened sexual assault that Ian interrupts. 
> 
> Terry attempts to strangle Ian. 
> 
> If you want to skip these scenes, go from “Ian wakes up incandescently happy” and cut down to “the sun is shining”. 
> 
> Please read with care. 
> 
> **Notes:**
> 
> When I posted the one-shot and people expressed interest in seeing more my gut response was “Ah ha ha… yeah. 3x06. No.” 
> 
> But you see how that turned out. 
> 
> That said, to anyone who was hoping we wouldn’t brush up against this one: I’m sorry. But I hope you're into where this is going. 
> 
> Van Damme had three “fresh” movies on Rotten Tomatoes in 2013, when Cascading Failures aired. One is an Expendables movie, one is a Kung Fu Panda movie and one is JCVD, the movie where he plays himself. (I’ve seen that one. I liked it. I don’t think Mickey would be super into the seven minute monologue about the price of fame.) None of his 90s action movies were as well received as Under Siege. 
> 
> I watched 20 minutes of Under Siege in French while researching this chapter. My French is not good. 
> 
> I also recognize that these are trying times, so I just want to close by saying: In this story, V usually knows of what she speaks. 
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who left comments on the last chapter, or who picked this up since I last posted. The feedback really helps and I deeply appreciate it. 💕
> 
>  **NEXT Chapter Five: Wrecked** Struggling. Lots and lots of struggling.


	6. Wrecked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything has blown up and Ian and Mickey have no idea what they’re going to do. Fiona and Lip try to save their family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! No tags were updated.

The first blow comes from Linda. 

It takes five days for Ian to recover enough to go back to the Kash & Grab. Linda is uncharacteristically kind—which mostly just means she isn’t threatening him with anything or snapping about what he can and can’t do. She runs through what needs to get done during slow periods at the store, thankfully writing it down as she talks, because Ian’s powers of concentration are shot. 

He’s over the worst of the concussion, they tell him. He spent three days in a private room at Gunderson House doing nothing but sleeping. In the brief periods of wakefulness he’d pull out his phone and check to see if there’d been any activity. Sometimes there was a text from Fiona or Lip. Nothing from Mandy. Nothing from Mickey. 

He was too messed up to initiate contact, or respond. Wasn’t necessary anyway, because Lip was keeping vigil, as best he could, at his bedside. Made sure there was always water and brought him food. Sat at the foot of the bed when Ian was awake and asked his questions over and over again. What happened? Who did this? 

Ian didn’t answer. There was no fucking point. 

The fourth day, he finally started to feel human again. The headache wasn’t entirely gone, but it was greatly diminished, and he could focus on the empty call log on his phone. 

“How’s Mandy?” he asked Lip, when he showed up with a packaged muffin and a yogurt, around breakfast time. 

“Good. She’s asking about you.” 

That was something. 

“Didn’t text.” 

“She knows you’ve been on brain rest. But we’re talking. She knows what’s up.” 

Ned comes by, all sly smiles and touchy bedside manner. He tells Ian he’s making a remarkable recovery. He can resume normal activities when he feels up to it. But take it easy. Nothing too strenuous. He squeezes Ian’s biceps and grins. 

Ian still sleeps most of that day, too, back in the dorm. But by evening he feels a little more human. He lets Linda know he can come back. If he still has a job. 

So on the morning of the fifth day, here he is, getting instructions and feeling overwhelmed by the lights and the noise. Slightly unsure he should be here. 

“I”m going to have to hire another person,” Linda tells him, finishing up. “So if you know anyone who’d be interested in replacing your buddy, let me know.” 

“My buddy?” 

She blinks. “Mickey. He quit on Monday. No notice, either. Just demanded I leave his paycheck for his sister to pick up. She came and got it yesterday.” 

He shouldn’t be surprised, but it’s like the earth has just vanished from under his feet. 

“Mickey _quit_?” 

“That’s what I said.” She’s not looking at him again. Head bent over her paper, scribbling away. “Figured you’d already know.” 

So much of what Ian has done since everything went to shit has been automatic. Days and days of thinking as little as possible, letting his body run on autopilot. He didn’t really examine why he was coming back to the Kash & Grab. It’s just what he does. He works. He makes money for the squirrel fund. He hangs out with Mickey. 

But now that he’s here, back behind the counter, he realizes what he was doing. He was putting himself where Mickey could get to him. Where he could get to Mickey. 

“No,” he manages. “I didn’t know.” 

Linda’s eyes flick up. “Trouble in paradise?” 

Ian feels like she just slapped him and it must register on his face because she looks immediately repentant. 

“I’ll say what I always say, Ian. You can do better.” She slides the paper across the counter to him. “This doesn’t have to all be done today. But do what you can.” 

The second blow comes from Mandy. 

It takes a lot for him to text her. He thinks about Mickey every waking moment, but there hasn't been a lot of those. Now he’s alert and focused. When he’s been awake, the thing he thinks about most is what Mickey said to him. _I never wanted this. You know that._

He knows it’s not true. Mickey wants Ian just as much as Ian wants Mickey. But if he’s talking about the day they bonded… Then yeah. Mickey didn’t want it. He didn’t want an Aaron Bond. 

But that had to be a line, right? Because there was no way Mickey meant it when he told his father he’d sever the bond. 

He knows his soulmate, Ian reminds himself. He knows how Mickey reacted, a year ago, when Ian suggested the same thing. There is no way that’s what he wants. And if it was safe to text, Mickey would have done it. Even if he meant what he’d said. 

But he hasn’t. So Ian can’t text Mickey. The risk is too great. 

The only way for him to find out anything, then, is to reach out to Mandy. But Mandy hasn’t sent a text, either. And he can’t use Lip as an intermediary again. He had been confused enough when Ian had asked him to give Mandy a message while in the grips of a recent traumatic brain injury. If Ian asked him to send her another message it would set off all of Lip’s alarm bells and in no time, he was sure his brother would have at least put together a part of what was going on. He couldn’t risk that. 

He stays still as long as he can. He’s idly wondered, once or twice, why he isn’t falling apart more than he is. When Mickey had gone to juvie, the fifth day had been the worst. But so far, he hasn't felt anything. He’d been unconscious a lot, but he was still confused. 

Now it’s like the floodgates have opened. Maybe Linda had just made everything real. Maybe the fact that he was hurt had fucked up his processing of what was happening. Maybe Lip was right and this shit was all in his head—he doesn't know. All he knows is that, right now, he is trying really hard not to hyperventilate. He needs to know what the fuck is going on. Now. 

So he caves and sends a text to Mandy. Asks her to come see him. It takes hours for her to respond. He goes through Linda’s list like a man possessed. It helps a little, just tackling task after task. Trying to ignore the sick feeling in his stomach and the awful prickling at the base of his spine and the back of his neck. 

He gets a text back half an hour before the end of his shift. Mandy will meet him in the backyard of the Gallagher house right after work. 

That’s when the cold sweat starts. By the time he gets to the house, he can feel a slight tremor in his hands. He sits out on the back steps, hands clenched and eyes trained on the back alley. The second Mandy appears he’s on his feet. 

“How is he?”

Mandy’s brow is knit as she comes through the back fence. “Hello to you, too.” 

He can’t do this. He can’t pretend this is a visit. “Mandy, please.” 

She shrugs, leaning against the van in discomfort. “Mostly stays in his room.” She looks him up and down. “I’m glad you’re up.” 

“I didn’t get it as bad as he did.” 

Mandy’s brow raises. “You almost got it a hell of a lot worse. How’s your head?” 

“Does he want to see me?” 

Mandy’s mouth twitches. “Probably. But he won’t.” 

Mandy says it lightly, but Ian feels like a cannonball has just been shot directly at his chest. Much like Linda, he realizes how transparent he is off Mandy’s worried expression. 

“Look. Ian.” She reaches out, trying to brush a comforting hand against his arm. Ian steps back from it without thought. “You gotta lay low for a while. We shouldn't even be talking, probably.” 

He shakes his head. “I don’t think I can do that.” 

“Well, you have to. You just do.” 

“Mandy. He told me he was going to sever the bond.” 

Mandy blinks. “Fuck that.”

Ian experiences a tiny bit of relief, because yes. Yeah, that is how he feels. 

“I have no fucking idea if he was serious. Mandy, I can’t lose the bond. Not like this. I can’t.” 

“I know. I’m sorry.” She runs her fingers through her hair, flustered. “Look. Don’t do anything crazy, ok? Just… Dad beat Mickey pretty bad. His face is still all swollen and shit. He might have some broken ribs. He just… he can’t do this right now.” 

_Do this._ Like it’s a break up. Ian is losing patience with the unbonded. 

“He’s gonna be worse without me.” He says it because it’s true. He knows it is. “It’s not good for us. Being apart. It fucks us up.” 

“Fucks you up how?” 

Ian laughs, bitterly. “I dunno, Mandy. How do I look to you right now?”

He must look unhinged. He must. Because Mandy is eying him warily and that’s not their usual vibe. 

“I know it’s hard—”

“No. You don’t know,” Ian spits. “Keeping it a secret was hard. Having to hide it from my family. Lying to Lip. To you. That was hard. Trying to keep my shit together while he was in juvie was hard. Having to go with YOU to meet him when he got out and then taking the L across the city without even being able to touch him—He’s my _soulmate._ I’ve built my whole fucking LIFE around him. I gave up on the army, I gave up on West Point, I gave up on my whole life plan. I’m 17 and the most important thing in my entire fucking WORLD is keeping him ok.” The truth of that almost knocks him over. Because _yes_ , and everything is so fucking far away from ok. “I fucking failed, Mandy! And you’re telling me he’s hurt and he might have a broken rib and by the way, I can’t even fucking see him. Can’t fucking see him until WHEN? Because he told me not to come back—” 

Ian’s voice cracks, inching up in the hysteria, because it’s suddenly all catching up with him. V told him it would never be over. But it’s… it’s _over._ Mickey said he wants to break the bond. Mickey told him to never come back. And even if Ian doesn’t really believe either of those things, one thing is definitely true: Nothing is going to be the same again. There is no going back to what they were. And now Mandy is talking to him like he’s just some fucking guy. Some teenage boyfriend, like the guys whose names Fiona struggles to remember when she’s talking about who she dated before Jimmy-Steve. 

“Holy fuck,” he repeats, holding his head. The awful panicky feeling that has been threatening to overtake him all day surges up and Ian drops to his knees. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. Just like when Terry had him when Terry was on his chest, and—

“IAN!” There is real fear in Mandy’s voice as she crouches over him. Her hands are hovering over him like she’s scared to touch him. “Ian, please! You gotta calm down.” 

What the fuck is she even saying? 

“Ian. How can I help? What do you need?” 

He barely gets the word out on a desperate gasp that sounds as fucking broken and needy as he feels. “Mickey!” 

“I can’t, Ian. I’m sorry. You can't see him.” 

His head is starting to throb again and Ian sits back, on the hard dirt of the backyard. His arms shake as he rests them on his knees, head hung low while he sucks in a breath. Then another one. Mandy tries to touch his shoulder, and he shrugs her off. He thinks about Mickey, panicking in the alleyway. He thinks about trying to comfort him. Closes his eyes and tries to imagine he’s back there. Just encouraging Mickey to breathe. 

“I’m ok,” he says, finally, when he at least feels like he’s got a grip on his respiratory system. He scrubs at the tears on his cheeks with the back of his hand. “I’ll fucking wait, but If he really doesn’t want me—if he’s done—he can tell me himself.” 

“Ian. You almost _died._ He isn’t fucking ghosting you.”

Ian closes his eyes, tipping his head back. His lungs are still burning. “He has to talk to me, Mands. He just does.” 

“Why are you acting like this is fucking crazy? He’s trying to protect you.”

“And who’s protecting him?”

“I am, ok?” 

He tosses a quick glance her way. “No. Not ok.” 

“Jesus Christ, Ian!” Mandy throws her hands up. “He quit the Kash & Grab. He’s dropping out of school. He’s not gonna fuck around with this. All you have to do is stay away from him. That’s it!” 

The nausea rolls through Ian again. _That’s it._ Just that one impossible fucking thing. 

“You don’t get it.” 

“Ian, don’t give me that _‘you don’t understand my bond’_ bullshit.” 

“You DON’T understand!” He’s yelling now and Mandy jumps. Distantly, he feels guilty, but mostly he just feels so fucking frustrated. “If you understood you wouldn’t say this to me like it was NOTHING. It’s fucking EVERYTHING, Mandy! And I don’t know how to do this! I don’t know how the fuck to stay away when every single instinct I have is _screaming._ He’s in trouble and he needs me and I can’t just pretend that isn’t happening!” 

“He NEEDS you to stay away, asshole!” Mandy shoots back, her face red and eyes shining. “And I’m sorry if that fucking SUCKS for you, but it’s literally your god damn lives. You wanna help Mickey? Get your fucking shit together, Ian. I mean it.” 

She leaves him sitting in the dirt. 

***

Mickey wakes up when Mandy bangs back into his bedroom for at least the third time that day. This whole fucking thing has Mandy acting like she gives a shit about him and it’s working the only nerve he has left, to be totally honest. 

“Your soulmate is losing his fucking mind.” 

Jesus. 

“I’m not kidding. He’s like a whole different person.” She sits down on a pile of clothes by the window and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. “He had a full-on meltdown. Did you really tell him you were going to sever the bond?” When Mickey doesn’t respond she kicks the bedpost. “Hey. Did you hear me? Ian is losing it. Maybe care a little.” 

“Fuck you,” Mickey mutters, listlessly. 

“You guys are both so fucking charming. I’m loving my new job as go-between. Can’t wait to do it again.” 

They fall back into silence. Mickey staring at the wall, Mandy smoking her cigarette. 

“You can’t tell me shit like this.” 

“Oh, you’re fucking _welcome._ You’ve been harassing me about him every time I check on you.” 

“For four days you came in and you told me he was getting better. Now you’re telling me he’s getting worse. It’s fucking work to do this. Lot more fucking work if you start telling me shit like that.” 

“Well, you seem a hell of a lot less fucked up than he does right now.” 

Mickey closes his eyes. He’s on some random painkiller Iggy gave him. It keeps him in the bed, at least. It gives him a little bit of distance. He idly wonders just what the fucking plan is, here. Because this is the only thing that seems to work. Being too fucked up to walk farther than the bathroom, combined with a carefully regulated fog of pot, alcohol and/or whatever the fuck this shit is. 

“Are you on something?” 

Mickey drifts back to the conversation. “Of course I’m fucking on something.” 

“Jesus, Mick.”

Mickey lets himself float a bit. Because why the hell not? His eyes trail over the ceiling of his room, and then down the walls. “This is where the bond got activated. He tell you that?” 

There’s a long silence before Mandy responds. “He doesn’t tell me anything about you. He keeps your fucking secrets, Mickey.” 

Yeah. He always kinda figured that. But he wonders, idly, what it would be like to actually talk to someone about Ian for once. Just casually, even. Tell someone about the bond, complain about Ian’s taste in movies, or even grumble about the creepy Northside doctor who keeps grinning at Ian while eating produce. He isn’t someone who likes to talk about his feelings or his fucking relationships. But then, he’s never been allowed to be. 

“Ever since it happened,” his voice barely sounds like his. “I’ve felt like I won the fucking lottery. Like someone made a mistake and I got assigned to the wrong guy. But it was too fucking easy, with him, so I started to believe in shit. Like if this was for real, anything is possible, you know? And _the union of souls is supposed to be more powerful than the tides_ or whatever the fuck they say. That’s where I fucked up. I started to believe I got to have him.” 

“Mickey.” 

“But I shoulda known this was where it was going.”

“I sure hope your fucking plan here isn’t to get stoned, lie in the dark and feel sorry for yourself until Dad has a heart attack or some shit.” 

What other fucking plan was there? He sees absolutely no out here. He’s run all the scenarios, and in every single one of them Ian ends up dead. Run away? Terry tracks them down and kills both of them. Keep sneaking around? Terry catches them again and kills both of them. Mickey runs off alone? Terry kills Ian out of pure malice. Mickey stays put and Ian mounts some kind of resistance to being abandoned? Terry kills Ian. Mickey does nothing, Ian does nothing, maybe Terry gets drunk or runs into him on the street or just gets bored and kills Ian anyway. Because he just doesn’t like the reminder. 

Mickey opens his eyes. “How’d his neck look?” 

Mandy sighs. “Purple. Dad’s big ass thumb marks on his collarbone. I pointed out he’d almost gotten himself fucking dead and he did _not_ care.” She picks at her thumbnail, staring at it intensely. “I think, for whatever fucking reason, you’re his lottery jackpot, Mickey. I know it’s work and I shouldn’t tell you this shit... But he’s not ok without you. I’ve never seen someone like that.”

“He’s recovering from fucking head trauma.” 

“Yeah. Ok. But you’re all he wants to talk about. You really gonna break the bond?” 

“I told Dad I would. To get him to let Ian go.” 

“Were you serious about it?” 

He probably should be. He was still thinking about it. How Ian had said that to him, a whole year ago. That he’d do it if Mickey wanted him to. And Mickey had _not_ wanted him to. Could barely think of anything worse. 

He wonders if he could actually do it for Ian. Set him free like that. 

“Probably not.” 

“You’re gonna have to talk to him, Mick. Soon. It’s like you’re the only thing that matters and you’re gone. And he doesn’t know what to do with himself.” 

Mickey rolls over onto his stomach and buries his face in his pillow. Nice to know he and Ian still had things in common. 

***

Ian makes it back to Gunderson House about 45 minutes after he was supposed to be there. Because he’s just come out of solitary for medical reasons, he has to answer a lot of questions and they nearly take him to the ER because he’s flushed and distracted. But he’s also quiet and cooperative and can answer all the head-injury related questions, so in the end, they let him go straight up to his dorm. 

He doesn’t know how long he’s been lying there when Lip comes up and sits down at the foot for the bed for fucking day five of What Happened? Who Did This? 

“You eat?” 

Ian shrugs. 

“Hungry?” 

“I’m good.” 

“Ok,” Lip draws in his breath. “You ever going tell me what the fuck is up with you?” 

“Got dumped,” Ian finally manages. He guesses that’s as good an excuse as any. 

“That have anything to do with you getting your ass beat so bad you went to bed for a week?” 

“Lip, I’m fucking begging you. Stop trying to figure this out.” 

“What the fuck would you do, Ian? If I came home looking like I survived a murder attempt and refused to talk about it?” 

“If you told me to back the fuck off? I’d back the fuck off.” 

“Ok. What if it was Carl?” 

Ian can see a glimmer of Lip’s point. 

“Carl’s 11.” 

Lip nods while his eyes dart around the dorm. 

“It’s, uh. It’s fucking hard? Just so you know. It’s hard to know something’s really fucking wrong and I cant do anything about it.” 

A painful lump settles in Ian’s throat. 

“Yeah.” 

“Yeah.” 

Lip claps a hand on Ian’s ankle. He once again feels the urge to shake it off. Kick to escape the hold. He manages to resist this time and suddenly recognizes it for what it is. Rage. Rage that other people are here, and other people are trying to comfort him, touch him, take care of him when all he wants is Mickey. Mickey, close enough to touch. He would do anything to be with him right now and every single person who casually puts a hand on him just drives home how wrong he feels. How totally uncomfortable the whole fucking world is right now. 

“Just promise me you’re not about to be offed by some shady drug cartel, at least.” 

Less outside the realm of possibility than it probably should be. 

“No. Just got my heart smashed.” 

“Not gonna tell me who?” 

Ian rolls over onto his stomach. He should come up with a name. At minimum. But he can’t talk anymore. He might actually be about to cry. 

“Does Mandy know?” 

Ian grinds his face into the pillow. His shoulders begin to shake. It’s taken five days, but he gives into it. Gives in to ugly, body-wracking sobs. Lip’s hand comes to rest on his back. He lets it. Who knows. Maybe this will help. 

***

After that, Ian gives up on thinking for a little while. He’s always been able to rally himself to a cause, so he falls into Good Soldier mode for Fiona. Concentrates on Liam and Carl, and how lost they will be to them if they don’t figure this DFS bullshit out. 

Every moment he’s not working on Operation Guardian Fiona is an exercise in self-discipline. And he has a lot of that. He can sit in the Kash & Grab and stare into space and force himself not to curl up on the floor in despair. He can get through dinner at Gunderson House, never rise to any bait, and no one but Lip will care if he goes straight to bed afterwards. He can follow Lip’s instructions, going where Lip says to go, doing what Lip tells him to do. He can act like he’s fine. Basically. 

He has moments. He lets himself walk through the places he and Mickey went together. He visits the dugouts. Under the bleachers. A few other abandoned lots and old buildings where they’d sometimes managed to hide from everyone but each other. He doesn’t catch a hint of Mickey. When he sees Mandy, who is still attached to Lip half the time, he doesn’t ask her any questions. She returns the favour. 

On the appointed day, he goes to court and listens as Fiona tells a story about how she dragged him to the hospital with a fever of 104 when she was six years old. When the judge makes Fiona his guardian, he cheers with everyone else. They go home. They celebrate. On the way out the door, V catches him for a hot second. Takes his hand and squeezes it meaningfully. 

The next morning, Ian can’t get out of bed. 

Jesus _Christ._ When is this going to stop? He doesn’t feel like he’s managed to climb out of the pit once. This is not what juvie was like and he’d thought juvie had been bad. That first week? Fucking awful. Feeling like he was dying on Day Five, but then the fever broke. And after that, having that little bit of contact through the glass and over the phone, he’d been ok. And sure, he doesn’t have that right now. And he has no fucking idea what is going on. But he should be able to roll with this. 

But telling himself that, asking the questions, doesn’t change the fact that he can barely move. He feels heavy and exhausted and sad beyond description. He hates his life right now—like truly, deeply and profoundly, hates it.

Carl tries to get him up. Then Debbie. He manages to find enough voice to tell them he’s fine, but they should leave him alone. At some point Lip wanders in. He doesn’t even bother to ask questions. Just smokes a cigarette and sighs heavily when Ian isn't interested in a drag. Ian waits until Lip leaves to turn towards the wall, curl up under the covers, and cry. 

He hasn’t cried for a week and it feels no better than last time. What it DOES feel is endless. Instead of one contained storm, he finds himself silently weeping, pausing only to sleep, for most of the day. When it finally stops, he feels like he may not be able to ever produce tears again. 

It’s late afternoon when Fiona appears. The house is quiet, the DFS fiasco having effectively killed the last weeks of Debbie’s daycare. 

“Hey,” she murmurs, from the doorway. He glances over. “You feeling ok?”

He’s really done with that question. “Will be.” 

“Yeah? Can I bring you something? Juice? Hot Pocket?” 

“Nah, I’m ok.” 

Fiona settles herself at the foot of the bed. She’s blurry to him right now. His eyes are a little swollen and his brain is a lot muddy. “I know something’s up, Ian. You don’t have to talk about it, but I’d like to help. If I can.” 

Fiona is in full soft older sister mode. The version of her no one who has ever wronged Fiona in a grocery store would believe exists. And because he honestly doesn’t understand what’s happening to him, and thinks it shouldn’t _be_ happening, he finally asks for something. “Could you call V?” 

“V?”

“Yeah.” 

“Why do you want V?” 

Fuck. He doesn’t want to actually explain things right now. He just wants V to sit there and tell him that there are a million paths he can take and a million ways his life could go, and that Mickey will always be his soulmate and he will always love him. But Jesus, not if he severs the bond… 

And he’s crying again. For fuck’s sake. He wipes his face impatiently. 

“Ian. Is it your head again? What do you need V for?” 

Fuck it. Just fuck it. He laughs, tears still sliding down his face. “Because I’m bonded. I’m bonded and it’s gone to shit and I can’t have any more fucking conversations about it with people who don’t know what I’m talking about.” 

Fiona stares at him. Which is about the expected reaction. He’d try to roll over and bury his face in his bedclothes, but there's no fucking room with Fiona sitting on the bed. 

“Ok,” she says finally. “Get up.” 

“No.” 

“Come on,” she smacks his thigh in what is probably supposed to be an encouraging gesture. “We’re gonna go to my room.” 

What the fuck… 

“Come on!” More swatting now. “Move. Let’s go.” 

The path of least resistance is clearly getting the fuck up, so Ian groans and rolls out of the bed, sorely regretting every single decision he’s made in the last two minutes. Fiona puts both hands on his shoulders, fully pushing him as he stumbles out of the boys' room and through the accordion door to crash down on Fiona’s bed. He settles flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling. “Ok. I’m here.” 

Fiona draws the door closed and crawls onto the mattress next to him, eyes bright. “How long has V known you’re bonded?”

“I'm not trying to start shit between you and V.” 

“Nope. No shit. I get it. But how long?” 

“We’ve only talked about it a couple of times. But she figured it out last fall.” 

“Shit! That’s almost a year ago. How fucking long have you been bonded?” 

Ian puts his feet flat on the mattress and covers his hands with his eyes. “Two years in January.” 

“Fuck.” 

Fiona says it like ‘imagine that’. Like it’s just an interesting piece of trivia and not a life-altering detail. 

“Yeah.” 

“We musta bonded right around the same time.” 

It takes a second for that to sink in. Ian drops his hands, then sits up. “Wait. What?” 

Fiona smiles, sadly. “Yeah. Right around St. Paddy’s Day for me. What about you?” 

His eyes fly over her face, trying to figure out if he’s kidding. “Um. Remember the fake funeral?”

“Seriously?” 

“Yeah.” 

Fiona marvels. “God, I had no idea.” 

“I mean. Ditto.” 

“Yeah, no. No, I didn’t…” she lets out a bright, sharp laugh. “I didn’t want you guys to know!” 

“So it’s not… Jimmy-Steve?” 

“No,” Fiona’s smile dims. “Nah, not Jimmy. I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.” 

His first instinct is to tell her he can’t… but then he realizes he can. He’s still holding on to this secret like it’s life and death. But Terry knows. The worst fucking thing has already happened. 

“You first,” he ventures, giving himself a little bit of extra time to consider. 

Fiona sighs. “You remember my friend Jasmine?” 

Ian nods and waits for the rest of the sentence. Fiona lowers her chin and gives him a meaningful look. “Wait. JASMINE? Jasmine-Jasmine? Boat Party Jasmine?”

“Yep!” 

“But you’re…” he shakes his head. “You’re straight.” 

“As an arrow. It turns out.” Her eyes cloud in a way that hits Ian right in his gut. “You can imagine how that went over.” 

“How… You were bonded that whole time, though, right? She was married. You were dating all kinds of guys --”

“Oh, hey. Not _all kinds._ ” 

Ian gives her a look. “You were dating a lot of different guys.” 

“Yeah,” Fiona shrugs. Like she’s trying to be breezy. “So was she. That’s what we did. But ok. Pay up. Who’s your soulmate? It can’t be crazier than mine.” 

Ian smirks and Fiona breaks out in a big grin. 

“Oh? Oh, you think you can compete?” 

“I think I have a chance.” His smirk turns into a smile, which feels like a fucking miracle. He can feel his heartbeat in his chest for the first time in weeks. It’s weird, but just the prospect of talking about him. At all. “I should tell you something first.” 

“What? That you’re gay?”

“What the fuck, Fiona!” 

“I mean, you’re not that subtle!” 

Unfair. He has spent three years in a Southside Chicago High School without any fucking rumours. “HOW am I not subtle?” 

“Dated Mandy Milkovich for over a year, never saw you do more than hold hands. That was NOT your baby, am I right?” 

“Ok. Yeah.” 

“NEVER turn your head when there’s a pretty girl. Never get distracted when someone’s got their shirt cut down to their navel. You _are_ subtle with dudes, but you at least look. I can’t say I’d have picked up on it if you just had zero interest in the neighbourhood skanks out in their miniskirts and crop tops.” 

Ian laughs, just a little, into his chest. Fiona’s never shy about slut-shaming his classmates. 

“And then Lip seemed to know something. When you got jumped. He seemed to think that might be a reason why.” 

“I would have told you,” he exhales. It’s all starting to feel heavy again. “But then I bonded. And he didn’t want anyone to know.” 

“And you love him.” 

“Yeah.” 

“So you stayed in the closet for him. Even with us.” 

Ian nods. 

“V know who he is?” 

“Nope.” 

“So you gonna tell me?” 

Ian looks at her, feeling desperate. He wants to tell her. He really does. “This can’t get around the neighbourhood. Like, it fucking can’t...” 

“Ian. What do you take me for?” 

“I’m not kidding. It’d be bad.” Ian feels the tightness in his chest again. “His father caught us together.” 

“Your soulmate’s _father_ did that to you?” 

Ian takes a breath and braces himself. “My soulmate’s Mickey Milkovich.” 

Fiona’s eyebrows shoot up. “Holy fuck.” 

“Yeah.” 

“My sweet little brother with Mickey fucking Milkovich.” 

Ian’s mouth twists. “You don’t know him.” 

“Yeah,” Fiona admits. “Just tell me he’s good to you.” 

So much for being out of tears. Ian presses his lips together and bows his head. 

“Oh, Ian,’ Fiona scrambles over to him, pulling his head down to her shoulder. “I’m sorry. I get it. I was just surprised. You’re right. I don’t know him.” 

Ian can’t get the fucking words out. _Mickey is the best. Mickey would do anything for me. Mickey is fucking worth it._ Even all this pain, physical and emotional, is worth it. 

“He won't see me anymore,” he finally gasps. “Thinks it’s too dangerous.” 

“I mean. He might be fucking right!” 

Ian looks at Fiona, helplessly. “I feel like I’m falling apart. Like sometimes I can fake it, but…” he shakes his head. “It hurts _so_ much.” 

“I know,” Fiona coos, stroking his hair. Ian lets her guide him down onto the bed again, curling up so she can tend to him. Like he’s still that little kid with the fever. “I know it sounds like fucking bullshit, Ian. But it won’t always be this bad.” 

It does, in fact, sound like bullshit.

“I just want to see him again. Just for a minute.” 

“Yeah, I know,” She’s still gently stroking his hair. For some reason, it doesn’t make him as angry as every single other touch he’s received since he and Mickey broke. “You wanna tell me your bond story?” 

“My what?” 

“Bond story. The story of how you bonded.” 

“Do people do that?” 

“Jesus, Ian. All the time. Go to a bridal shower sometime. Or don’t. They’re horrible.” She sighs. “I just know it’s been hard for me, not having someone besides V to talk to about my bond. So if you wanna talk about him… you should talk about him.” 

Ian’s not entirely sure he DOES want to talk about Mickey. But then, the only time he’s managed to smile and mean it, he was talking about Mickey. 

“We got into a fight. And bam.”

“You bonded by punching each other?” 

“It was more like wrestling, but yeah.” 

Fiona laughs. “Holy shit. You must have been stunned.” 

Ian can’t help but smile, too. “Not as stunned as him, I don’t think.” He nudges her arm with his chin. “What about you?” 

“Reaching into a basket of fries at The Alibi. It was fucking crazy. She was really touchy, even before that, but it was fucking March. Hat and gloves and fucking parkas, you know? I dunno how anyone bonds in Chicago before May.” 

“It must be crazy, having that happen in public.” 

Fiona hums. “Not like you’d think. Like, right in that moment? It was confusing, but it wasn’t a _shock._ We were having fun. Like a real easy time, and I felt good. And then we touched and I felt even better. Like I’d been filled with fucking helium. Like I was immediately lighter. It was just nice. You know?” 

Ian rolls over onto his back so he can look at Fiona directly. “And then you were… friends?” 

Fiona grimaces. “It was awkward, you know? She was married and I was kinda with Jimmy, on and off. So we decided to just… Keep it quiet while we figured it out. I just…. When it happened, I thought ‘Oh! I guess I’m bi?’ But I just could never… and she IS bi and she wanted to be with me, and I just didn’t want her like that. I was ok with kissing and I loved to cuddle with her. You know? I liked having this one kind of physical intimacy, but I gotta tell you… I could not wrap my mind around going down on her. Just no part of me wanted to do it.” 

“I relate.” 

Fiona laughs a little at that. “Not to get too TMI, but like… I like sex. So it was fucking weird just not to want it with her. Sorry if that’s awkward for you to hear.” 

Ian shrugs. “I hear too much shit from straight people who are grossed out about what I want to do in bed. I find what they want to do pretty gross, but I don’t have to make a big deal out of it.” 

Fiona smiles. “Vaginas, am I right?” 

“I hear they do amazing things.” 

Now Fiona gives a deeper, more heartfelt laugh. “They do! I love mine. But I’m just not into getting up and personal with anyone else’s.” She twists her mouth, and Ian can see the sadness washing over her. Deflating her. “I just had that whole Pretty Woman thing in my head. Down and out girl bonds with a great guy who loves her and takes her away from it all. And even my more grounded fantasies, I didn’t see bonding with a woman I just felt nothing but, like, intense friendship with.” 

“But if you didn’t… Like, V would say it means you aren’t supposed to.” 

“Yeah. V’s said that to me, too. But that’s not how Jasmine felt.” 

Ian shakes his head. He hasn’t seen Jasmine around in at least a year. “So you just… aren’t anything? Not even friends?” 

“I mean, I guess we’ll always be friends. But yeah. We couldn’t figure it out. We always had fun together, but she was kinda wild and there was Jimmy… I don’t know. We didn’t fit.” 

“But maybe Jasmine was the same as you. She just thought that she was supposed to, and she’s bi, so it wasn’t a crazy idea. You’re still soulmates. If you don’t want her that way, then that’s just not who you guys are to each other. That makes more sense than being, like, a cosmic mistake.” 

Fiona nods, but Ian feels like he’s probably trodding on well-worn ground. This is why people find bonded people annoying. They’re so fucking insistent about other people’s bonds. Still. It’s mind-blowing to him. To just… not be with your soulmate at _all._

“When did you know you were attracted to Mickey?” 

Ian smiles, though his throat tightens. “Instantly.” 

“Instantly.” 

“Probably I was always attracted to him. He was all the shit I was trying not to be. And I wasn’t supposed to want that. But when we bonded it was immediate. I wanted to be as close to him as physically possible.” Ian remembers how fast that had moved. How quickly they’d been on each other, tearing their clothes off. It wasn’t something that could be misinterpreted. 

“Same for him?”

“Same for him.” Tears overwhelm Ian without any warning. He digs his palms into his eyes. “FUCK. I thought I was done crying. Like, done for life.”

“It hurts. It really… I feel this ache all the time and I don’t know how to get rid of it.”

“All the time?” 

Fiona’s eyes are glassy. “Yeah. All the time.”

Ian swallows convulsively. “Would you ever sever the bond?” 

“What? No. No. I don’t think it would make me feel better, for starters. I think I’d always be sad about it. And I think it would feel worse. I already kinda rejected her once, you know?” 

“Is she sad all the time, too?” 

“I dunno. We don’t talk, Ian.”

“Like, at all?” 

“No,” Fiona glances up at the ceiling, willing the tears to say in her eyes. “It’s too hard. We tried that, too, you know? It’s easier to just not see each other. It gets bearable.” 

“I don’t want it to get bearable.” 

Fiona turns her eyes back on him. “It’ll be different for you. You got a real love bond. You guys will figure it out.” 

Ian distantly recalls V telling him Fi and Lip both had pretty fucked up ideas about soulmates. It’s painful, he realizes. Maybe that’s why V cared enough to try and help him with Mickey. He does have a love bond, but he’d take any bond he could get with Mickey. Giving that up because it didn’t check the boxes you expected makes him feel terrible. For Jasmine, for Fiona. God. The world was so fucked up. 

“You got your soulmate for a reason,” Ian murmurs, parroting an old standby. For centuries, people have been trying to fathom their bonds while other people unhelpfully point out that fate exists. Probably. 

“Yeah. God likes pain,” Fiona tells him, dryly. “Had to make sure we get a bunch of our own and a bunch of someone else’s.” 

“You ever feel ripped off?”

“No,” Fiona sighs. “I feel like I fucking failed. Dropped out of high school. Dropped out of my bond. Just kinda par for the course.” 

“You’re not a failure.” 

“Yeah? Your bond nearly got you killed. It just makes fucking sense to drop out of it. My big problem was that it was awkward.” 

That’s gotta be a lie, Ian thinks. You don’t drop a bond because it’s awkward. 

“Don’t you miss her?” 

“Yeah. I do.” Fiona pats his shoulder. “You’re gonna get through this. I know you, Ian.” 

Ian sighs, rolls over, and puts an arm around his sister in a way that he hopes is comforting. He’s not sure she’s right. But he appreciates the effort. 

***

People think the Milkovich kids are feral. And maybe they are. But they have rules. Strict ones.

The first is that you never get in Terry’s way. 

The second is that, if you DO get in Terry’s way, the outcome is your own fucking problem. No one is going to help you with it. 

The final one is that, when you have fallen out of favour, you’re gonna be expected to do what it takes to get your place at the table back. 

Mickey is in deep debt. He knows that. His father hasn’t figured out what the price is going to be yet. But it's coming. And the idea fills Mickey with terror like he’s never felt, which is fucking saying something. 

He’s played it over in his head a million times. He’s never spelled this out for Ian, but the problem isn’t _just_ that Mickey is gay—it’s that Mickey is gay, a bottom and marked. It’s the trifecta for his father’s particularly disgusting brand of homophobia. Bad to be sexually attracted to men, worse to let one fuck you, but worst of all: To have a fucking Aaron Bond. To be _marked_ for another man. There’s no fucking way out of that. 

The only card Mickey has now is that, for his Dad, the worst part would be letting people know. And this is only a card he has because he’s fucking competent. Terry’s proud of his fucking criminal children and Mickey is by far the toughest, the smartest and the one with the most cred. He knows he has value to his dad because he gets things done, where Iggy and Colin fuck up. And he knows that Terry finds the idea of Mickey being out uniquely humiliating. 

So that’s his leverage. His value as a soldier, and the fact that he’s agreeing to keep this secret. His father is going to demand his pound of flesh, once Mickey has recovered from the beating. Mickey will be expected to score something big. Almost certainly something risky that might send him back into the system—only it’ll be prison this time because he’s aged out of juvie. 

But the more he thinks about it, the more he feels certain: Even if he does everything his father wants, even if he maintains their family reputation-—Terry is going to decide that Ian is too big a liability. And he can’t be left out there as a loose thread. 

This viscerally comes into focus when Mandy tells him Ian is out of the group home and back at the Gallagher house. Mickey has spent most of the past two weeks in a carefully monitored haze. He can’t do that anymore. Having Ian blocks away turns his blood cold. So once it gets late enough and the house gets quiet, Mickey gets up, gets dressed and does something he hasn’t done in almost two weeks: He leaves. 

He’s sober, which is rare for him these days. Just on Extra Strength Tylenol and Advil. And because of that, he can feel every bit of the crippling fear that comes with being separated from Ian. That’s why there’s a hard stop on how long Mickey can stand to go without reading Ian. Reading was the thing that most scared him about being in a bond, and it has turned out to be the thing he wants the most. He’d always thought he’d end up in a bond with someone who kinda hated him. He has no idea where he got that idea—old sitcoms? Depression-era cartoon strips? He’d thought he’d bond with a woman, first of all. And he thought she’d hate him. And he’d just have to hear that litany of ways that he didn’t measure up coming at him through the bond for the rest of his fucking life. 

So. Imagine his surprise, when he bonded with a dude. A beautiful one, who looked at him like he was a fucking miracle. That was plenty good all on its own, but to feel him, to read him, and get so much good stuff… it was literally beyond his wildest dreams. He never even pictured a soulmate who _liked_ him. And Ian thought Mickey was fucking delightful. The bond was always full of joy and excitement and lust and so much positive stuff Mickey felt drunk on it. And nearly two years in, it’s still like that. He and Ian fight. He annoys him and Ian gets pissed and frustrated. But it has never bothered Mickey the way he thought it would because it doesn’t _matter._ Ian loves him. Whatever negative shit there is, it’s fleeting. He makes Ian happy more than he makes him anything else. And knowing that—in a way that Ian could never convey with words or actions, and could never fucking LIE to him about—it is the best thing he’s ever had. The bond is fucking everything to him. 

The Gallagher house is dark when he gets there. He moves swiftly, crossing the street, pulling open the gate and then stealing up the steps. He stops in front of the door. He can’t see any sign of life. Nothing to indicate that someone’s awake to find him. He reaches out and touches the front door with his fingertips. Closes his eyes. 

Nothing. 

Fuck. 

He’s never really paid much attention to the bond radius. How fucking close does he have to be to feel Ian? Closer than this, apparently. He manages to restrain himself from pressing into the door like it’s a long lost lover, but it’s a close thing. 

Instead he reaches into his back pocket, pulls out an envelope, and slides it under the door. It’s a risk. Someone besides Ian could read it. But everything is a risk now, and he has to do this. He has to see Ian. 

***

When Carl tosses the letter at Ian in the middle of breakfast, he thinks he might be hallucinating. He picks up the bent, repurposed and taped up envelope and glances around the hectic kitchen. Mostly to see if he is, in fact, holding something other people would notice. Breakfast is in full swing and his siblings are doing their best not to pay attention to his weird mood and sombre expression, so no one is looking his way. He tucks it into his back pocket and hurriedly finishes the last few bites of his breakfast, making an excuse to drop his plate off at the sink and then seek what passes for privacy in the living room. 

His heart is pounding in his ears and he can’t imagine what it thinks it’s so excited about. It’s a crumpled piece of paper. It’s not going to be a fucking solution. But his heart has taken off without him. It doesn’t care. It’s from Mickey. It wants to breathe the paper in and rub up against it. It’s desperate for any little part of its other half. 

Ian realizes what he wants the most when he reads the contents and it’s just two sentences. He wants contact. He wants something besides “South Emerald. Dusk.” 

But it’s Mickey’s handwriting and it passes for a time and place. 

He’s going to see him. It’s happening. It’s finally fucking happening. 

He goes through the day in a daze. He’s at the Kash & Grab most of the day, in the last few days before school starts. He feels so nervous he’s nearly sick. Keeps taking the note out of his back pocket and checking the handwriting again. Mickey didn’t exactly write him a lot of love letters, but he has a distinctive lean on his D’s. It’s not a trick. It can’t be a fucking trick. 

It could be it, though. Or it could be Mickey seeing him one last time to tell him to fuck off himself. 

He’s been too scared to Google bond severance. He knows it’s hard to get. He knows it’s only starting to become publicly available -- but he also knows a lot of the work was done at Northwestern and the University of Chicago, so it’s got to be at least a little bit possible. 

He also knows it’s expensive. 

His gut says not to worry. Mickey can’t possibly want it. And two years ago, there was always the possibility of being a test subject. Now? Seems impossible. More than enough people willing to line up for it, even with the 70% success rate. 

He heads straight home from work, makes himself a sandwich and endures some heavy interrogation from Carl about whether or not he’s permanently damaged because of the head injury. His defence is weak because he honestly can’t concentrate for shit. He escapes to the shower. Puts on clean clothes and tries to look… What? Functional? Crushed? Hot? He doesn’t know. 

It could be a trap. He knows that. But he doesn’t care anymore. He knows what he wants, and if he doesn’t get it, he’s beyond caring about what might happen instead.

South Emerald is vague, but Ian knows where to go. Knows which abandoned building and which floor. Dusk is even less specific—and makes Ian wonder more than anything else in the note because wtf is this? A duel?—but he gets there by 6:30 and winds his way up the stairwell to the roof. It does look like someone’s been there. A couple of broken whiskey bottles and some shell casings. 

He walks the length of the floor, trying to steady his breath. Keep his heart from beating straight out of his chest. He wanders over to a blown-out window and settles as best he can against the concrete windowsill. 

Ten agonizing minutes pass before he hears footsteps. He stands up, heart in his throat. Mutters _“please, please, please…”_ under his breath. 

When Mickey appears, Ian’s relief is nearly blinding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ian isn’t ok with Fiona’s touch for any mystical “bonded people are ok” reason. He just feels like they get it. It’s not fair, because Lip has no idea what is going on, but Ian finds both his and Mandy’s attempts to console him with touch to be patronizing. 
> 
> I am extremely fond of bi-Fiona and were I ever to write her in a pairing it’d be femslash. But for my purposes here: straight like canon says she is. Even though I think she’d be happier with any number of the women who have come her way. 
> 
> I am almost frustrated at how much better Mickey is at self-medicating than Ian is at this point. Additionally, Terry did a number on him. He’s just about gotten to the point where he can walk places when he goes to the Gallagher house. 
> 
> Ian is waiting for Mickey in the same spot where they see each other for the first time after 3x06 in canon. The whiskey and shell cases are an homage, because he’s not coping that way this time—but he and Ian have definitely been there before. 
> 
> Finally: Everyone was so awesome after the last chapter. I was really nervous about that one and it was so nice to get so much feedback. I know it was a rough one, but I so appreciated hearing from people. 
> 
> **Next: Chapter Six: Hello Wisconsin** Mickey gets what he "wants".


	7. Hello Wisconsin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian and Mickey reunite, fight and come up with a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is non-linear because it just seemed to need to be.

**Monday**

“YO! GI Jane. Slow down.” 

“Don’t wanna be late.” 

“Glad to see you outta bed! Thought we were gonna have to take away your shoelaces and bedsheets.” 

“No need,” Ian doesn’t break his stride as he heads down the back alley. “Moving on.” 

“Moving on. Not gonna tell me who this asshole is? Let me take some of my pent up aggression out on his ass?” 

“You sure that’s how you wanna say that?” 

Lip laughs, catching his breath. “I’m just saying. I think it’s my brotherly prerogative to fuck up the guys who fucks up my brother like that.” Lip tosses a warm arm over Ian’s shoulder. “What’s with the getup? You got ROTC on fucking Labor Day?” 

“Opening ceremonies.” 

“Whatever the fuck that means.” 

“Hard start. Gonna have a retreat at the end of the week and everything.”

“Jesus. You’re not in the army yet!” 

“Discipline, Lip. Commitment. It builds character” 

“You freak me out with that talk sometimes,” Lip murmurs, using his hold on Ian’s shoulders to pull him to a halt. “So you gonna tell me what’s up with you and Mandy?” 

Ian blinks. “YOU gonna tell me what’s up with you and Mandy?” 

“Touché. Touché.” 

Ian steps away and shoots Lip a wry grin. “I’ll catch up with you later.” 

***

Mickey’s face is blank. Even from ten feet away, Ian can see the healing cuts and the yellow of a fading bruise that outlines the socket of his right eye. He gets to his feet like he’s being lifted, but manages to stop himself from running to Mickey. His heart is pounding in his chest and he knows that he’s betraying his absolute desperation, even without a bond. He doesn't care. Mickey can know. He can’t hide anything from him anyway. 

Then he realizes what’s happening. He can feel Mickey again. He can _feel_ him. They’re echoing each other and that in and of itself almost levels him. He smiles. Laughs, even, just a little bit, with the relief of it. Then Mickey is walking towards him with determination and Ian manages to take two steps before their bodies crash together and his mouth is on Mickey’s. His hands float in the air, uncertain of where to land, how else to touch him. But Mickey’s hands fist into Ian’s shirt and he presses up, mouth open and seeking as much contact as humanly possible. Ian finally allows himself to cup Mickey’s face. To pull him into him, draw him up against him. He doesn’t want the kiss to end. He’s scared of what lies on the other side of it. But fuck is he grateful for it. 

When they do pull back it’s sudden and gasping. Ian rests his forehead against Mickey’s as Mickey lets out a hum, his tongue drawing across his lip. Jesus. Can he live here? Can he just stay in this moment? He runs his hands down Mickey’s arms, feeling him, making sure he’s really there. 

“Jesus fuck.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Fucking missed you, Mickey.” 

Mickey kisses him again. Quick, grabbing kisses this time. He tightens his fists and pulls on Ian’s shirt like they're in a bar fight. They sway together, pushing and pulling and pressing into one another. Ian feels drunk with relief. Their feelings, both sets, are a fucking mess. But they still want each other, and that is all he cares about. Mickey's hand slides up his neck, resting against his pale throat. He pulls back, looking dazed, and focuses his eyes with effort. 

“You heal quick.” 

“Wasn't that bad.” 

“Like hell.” He runs his hand up over Ian’s head, like he’s feeling it. Testing to make sure there aren’t cracks. Ian almost laughs. 

“Satisfied?” 

“No,” Mickey frowns, his eyes still dancing over Ian’s face, throat, chest. He rubs his thumb along Ian’s jawline. “Fuck, Gallagher.” 

There’s so much relief in his voice. Ian leans down again and kisses him. Little bit soft, this time. Maybe even gentle. Mickey yields to it, and it feels so good to have his soulmate’s body leaning into him that Ian slides an arm around his waist and pulls him closer. Mickey hisses. 

“Your ribs?” Ian is panting as he pulls back. 

“Mmm,” Mickey’s eyes stay closed as he tastes his bottom lip. “Bruised.” 

“Mandy said they were broken.” 

“Fuck,” Mickey mutters. “I kept telling her not to spread around the bad shit. This was fucking hell without all the confirmation.” His thumb rubs the back of Ian's neck and it’s so soothing Ian could start to cry. “Maybe bruised. Maybe cracked. Didn’t exactly run to get an X-ray. It’s the same deal either way. Tape ‘em up and try not to sneeze.” 

“When did that happen? After I left?” 

Mickey shakes his head. “You want a blow-by-blow of the last two weeks? You trying to torture yourself?” 

“Yes, I want a fucking blow-by-blow.” Ian frowns. “Here. I'll go first. I slept for four fucking days, to start. Then I went to work and found out you fucking quit. I had a fight with your sister. I kinda walked around like a zombie for a week. Then they finally let me go home with Fiona and I spent another fucking in day in bed pretty much entirely because I miss you so bad.” Ian’s irritation evaporates. “Just so _fucking_ bad, Mick.” 

“Yeah,” Mickey says tightly. “I didn’t fucking do anything, Gallagher. Just spent two weeks in bed, staring at the goddamn ceiling.” 

Ian steps closer to him. He slides his hand up to cradle the back of Mickey’s head and gently rests his forehead against his brow. “Love you, Mick. More than I even knew. Hated every single second of this.” 

He can feel the hard surge of emotion in Mickey. Can almost read the pain as Mickey shakes his head, eyes closed and mouth tight. 

“Don’t.” 

“Don’t what?” 

His soulmate exhales, hand reaching for the cuff of Ian’s shirt. They stand there, touching in little ways, but it feels so intimate. Just brushing his nose against Mickey’s cheekbone, grazing a thumb across Mickey’s temple. Mickey’s breath ghosts across Ian’s lips three, four times before he leans in just that little bit to kiss him again. Just slow and sweet. Love pouring out of him like honey. 

***

**Tuesday**

“This better be fucking good.” 

“Family problem.”

There’s a beat while Mickey no doubt absorbs who is on the other end of the line. 

“Uh huh.”

“Mandy will fill you in, but I could use your help with something.” 

“Got it. Thursday night, though.” 

“Yeah. Thursday night.” 

Ian snaps the phone closed and hands it back to Mandy. “Thanks.” 

“Yeah, thanks for fucking cluing me in that you two are talking again.” 

“We’re not,” Ian digs his hands into his pockets. “Too fucked up. Can’t do it.” 

“So that’s it. You just give up.” 

Ian shrugs. There is already a chill in the air. First week of September, and Chicago is already turning on him. “Kinda got bigger fish to fry.” 

Mandy eyes him with weapon-grade distrust. “You were falling to pieces over him two weeks ago.” 

“It got easier.” 

“How?” 

“Mandy, my family is gonna lose their house. Can we worry about something else?” 

“I'm not an idiot,” she spits and Ian knows only about a quarter of this is about him. The rest of his family have given him major competition in the ‘piss off Mandy Milkovich’ department. 

“Mands.” 

“What’s Thursday night?” 

Ian sighs. He and Mandy haven’t really gotten right since their fight over Mickey, as much as he’s let his part of it go. “It’s ok if we just… Sometimes. Just enough to get through.” 

“Holy fuck,” Mandy closes her eyes. “It’s like dealing with a couple of addicts.”

“Talking on the phone helps, too. It’s how we handled juvie.” 

“This is a fuck-ton worse than juvie. If my dad finds out, he’ll fucking kill both of you.” 

“I know.” Ian meets her eyes with a steady gaze. “My family needs me right now. I wasn’t putting on an act for you. I gotta stay right or this whole thing falls apart.” 

Mandy looks awful. Tired and sad and just angry. She rolls her phone around in her hand. “Ian, so help me god…” 

“It’s not a long term solution. Ok? It’s just for now.” 

She sighs and turns her body towards him, finally facing him fully. “You got a long term solution?” 

Ian exhales. “Maybe.” 

“Maybe?” 

“Maaaaaybe.” 

She smirks. “I got some nitrous at home. Meet me at the park in 20 and tell me about it?” 

All the warmth and fondness he holds in his heart for Mandy pushes forward. He smiles. “Yeah. Of course.” 

***

Best laid fucking plans. 

Mickey doesn't know what he thought would happen when he saw Gallagher again, but somehow he’d convinced himself that it wouldn’t involve basically tripping over himself to fall into the fucker’s arms. 

HOW he managed to trick himself into believing that, he doesn’t know. Because the second he saw Ian, any illusions of self-control vanished. And now they are kissing, slow and hot, and Mickey can feel it in his toes and in the tips of his fingers. His hands hold tight to Ian’s shoulders, but they want to move. He can’t stop touching him. He wants to slide his hands under his shirt. Drag them across his chest and down his abs. Run them up his rib cage and feel every single vertebra in his spine. He wants to trace between his fingers, and brush his thumb across the thin skin on his wrists. To press his mouth against the inside of his elbow. But to do any of that, he’d have to stop kissing him. He’d have to stop clutching at him like he is going to vanish. And Mickey has zero fucking intention of doing any of that. 

Ian breaks the kiss, only to press his lips against Mickey’s cheek, then behind his ear. Hot wet kisses trail down his neck to his collarbone, and across his throat. Mickey hangs from Ian, surrendering any semblance of stoic resistance. He’s swooning in his soulmate’s arms like a fucking harlequin heroine. 

There were times in the last two weeks where he had convinced himself he’d never have this again. That it was too dangerous. He knew he’d never stop _wanting_ it, but he told himself to find a way to stop thinking about it. 

That was a fucking fantasy. Ian is breathing life into his veins right now. For two weeks he’s been a husk and now he can feel himself filling up again. Flushed with relief and gratitude and fucking love. Because Ian had a point. Mickey has more love in him than he had any idea of and it’s robbing him of his all good sense right now. He reaches for Ian’s belt, feeling frantic and uncontained. 

“Fuck me.” 

“You’re hurt.” 

“I don’t fucking care,” he breaths, pulling the buckle apart. “Fuck me.” 

Never let it be said Ian Gallagher isn’t easy for the right person. He herds Mickey back against the exposed brick, hands sliding Mickey’s hoodie off his shoulders, and then moving under his layered t-shirts. He won’t pull them off. Mickey can tell. He knows Ian understands what this is. Mickey doesn’t want slow and soft right now. He wants Ian the way he always has him. He wants it hard and fast. With his fucking clothes on, trying to finish before someone walks in on them. He wants Ian’s breath on his neck and marks on his skin. It’s stupid, it’s so stupid, but what the fuck is his life for if he can’t have this? His fucking soulmate. He can’t let go. It just isn’t in him. 

Ian, being Ian, has lube. 

Mickey gives a breathless chuckle and Ian presses him against the brick with just that little bit of care. Just enough to let Mickey know he remembers he’s hurt. But he’s warm against his back and is already working at his neck, kissing and exhaling hot breath. Whispering to him about how good he looks, how good he smells, how fucking hot he is. Ian is overflowing with praise and Mickey closes his eyes and just lets it in. Let’s himself believe what he’s being told. 

Ian’s hands are hot on his body and hot inside it. The prep is slower than usual, but he doesn’t care. Ian is still kissing on him, talking to him. One hand sometimes stroking across his abs, but refusing to slip any lower. Driving Mickey crazy and making him feel so fucking _important._

He wants that. He needs that right now. Two weeks in his father’s house, living like a ghost. No one but Mandy even looking at him. Coming out for food only when he absolutely had to. Showering just a few times, when the house was completely empty. Making as little noise and drawing as little attention as possible. A few minutes back with Ian and he’s at the centre of someone’s universe. Because he’s still everything to Ian. And Ian is everything to him. 

His side hurts. Un-fucking-avoidable. He doesn’t care. He pushes back against Ian, encouraging him. His arms folded against the wall, pressing his forehead against them. When Ian starts to rock into him in earnest, it hurts, but it feels fucking fantastic. It feels like he belongs in the world again. 

***

**Wednesday**

“Hey, where’s my knife?” 

“I dunno.” 

“Carl. My SOG Seal Team. It’s the best fixed-blade I’ve got.” 

“My samurai sword broke,” Carl complains, digging under his pillow. “I need a back-up ‘til it’s fixed. What if the zombie apocalypse goes down while you’re gone? Who’s doing to protect Debbie and Liam?” 

“Fine,” Ian sighs. “Keep it.” 

Carl’s eyes light up. Like it’s Christmas and he’s a real boy. “Really?” 

“Promise not to use it on anything human.” 

“Cat’s aren’t human.” 

He should probably worry about the way Carl doesn’t miss a fucking beat on that one. “Anything _living._ Promise.” 

“Promise.” Carl eyes the blade like it’s calling his name. “Can you teach me the different hand grips?” 

Ian feels the ground shift beneath his feet. “Y-yeah.” 

Carl nods, twisting the blade to admire how it catches the light. “Sure I can’t use this on Cousin Patrick?” 

“Carl.” 

“Okaaaaay,” Carl sighs, his dreams of murdering a blood relative and being the family hero fading from his eyes. “Thanks!” 

Ian catches himself staring moodily after Carl as he vanishes from the room. Almost certainly looking for something to cut. He shakes himself and refocuses, turning back to his packing. 

There’s not that much left to do, though, and when his phone rings an hour later he has moved the duffle to the foot of the bed and is lying on his back, smoking a cigarette. He flips his phone open with his thumb. 

“Hey.” 

“Hey.”

“Living dangerously.” 

“Using a fucking payphone.” 

Ian closes his eyes and exhales a plume of smoke. “How did it go?” 

“Your cousin’s cunt of a wife pulled a shotgun on me.” 

“Fuck.” 

“Didn’t get fucking anywhere. Sorry.” 

Ian rubs his hand down his face. “I can’t go like this.” 

“Ian.”

“I can’t, Mickey.” 

“Yeah, well. You can’t stay like this, either.” 

***

Ian is happy again. 

He wasn’t sure it was within the realm of possibility, it’s been so long since he’s felt anything that wasn’t tempered with grief and recrimination. But holding Mickey, head buried in his neck, while they both come down from pretty fucking spectacular orgasms, Ian definitely finds he still has the capacity for joy. 

He feels giddy. He feels lightheaded and high and just so fucking relieved. 

“Are you laughing?” 

“Probably.” 

“You’re out of your fucking mind.” 

“I feel good.” Ian slides his hands along Mickey’s torso, keeping his touch gentle and warm. “Don’t you feel good, Mickey?” 

Mickey shivers against him but leans back into his arms. His breathing is hard and his lungs heave against Ian’s warm palm. Ian presses his lips against Mickey’s shoulder and murmurs, “ribs ok?” 

“Fuck off.” 

He smiles, presses another kiss against Mickey’s damp skin, and then takes half a step back to pull up his jeans. They’re alone--very alone--but as the lust fades the paranoia is starting to creep back. Mickey drags in a breath and then they are turning away from each other as they mess with zippers and belts. 

What the fuck happens now? 

Ian feels flooded with anxiety and catches Mickey’s eyes cutting his way. He manages a weak smile and fishes in his pocket for a lighter. When in doubt…

“Wanna smoke?” 

“Fuck yeah.” Mickey turns back to him, though his eyes dart around desperately. The nerves are a pretty universal experience for them right now. Ian sits back on the concrete windowsill and lights a cigarette to pass to Mickey. 

“That was pretty great.” He decides to start with the fucking obvious. 

“Yeah, well,” Mickey takes a long drag off the cigarette, eyes skimming across the brick over their heads. “That’s never been our fucking problem, has it?” 

Ian’s stomach twists uncomfortably at that, and he turns his attention to lighting his own fucking cigarette. It doesn’t feel like something Mickey would say in the normal course of events. Sex _has_ always been easy with them. But so have most other things. He’s never found anyone easier to be with than Mickey. Every single thing has always felt like the most natural thing in the world. 

“So what is our fucking problem, Mickey?” 

Mickey scrubs a hand over his face, starting to pace. Ian feels the first real distinct, un-echoed feeling. Frustration. They let the silence hang for a good thirty seconds. Then Mickey blows out his breath. 

“Why the fuck did you tell him?” 

Ian stares at the back of his hands and tries to ignore the exasperation. “What was I supposed to do?” 

“Sit the fuck down and wait until it was over. Jesus, Gallagher.” 

Ian’s head snaps up. “Just let that… Just let that fucking happen to you?” 

“Let what fucking happen to me? It was fucking nothing.” 

“That’s not how it felt.” 

“It was sex. It was fifteen minutes. You couldn’t have stood to just wait that out?” 

Anger is starting to surge in Mickey and Ian’s starting to feel some of it himself, coupled with complete fucking bafflement. 

“That wasn’t sex.” 

Mickey is still shaking his head. He comes to a stop, takes a long and unsteady pull on his cigarette before looking Ian dead in the eyes. “There was fucking nothing for you to be jealous over.” 

“Jealous?” Ian’s whole body heats. He’s on his feet without thinking. “Fuck you, Mickey. I wasn’t fucking _jealous._ Don’t try and tell me I was wrong about what was happening there! I will remember what I read off you for the rest of my life. I will always fucking remember how that felt.”

“I was fine.” 

Ian stares at him. He wishes he didn’t get this. He really does. But it’s depressingly predictable. 

“You’re so fucked up.” 

“Sure, Gallagher.” 

“I don’t give a FUCK about where your dick has been. This is about watching someone hurt you --”

“I WAS FINE.” 

“You WOULDN’T have been!” Ian fires back. “There’s a fucking word for what was happening there, Mick. And what does it mean if I sit there and let someone DO that to you when I think I can stop it? What the fuck does that make me? Just another person who doesn’t stand up for you? Who just lets your father roll right over you?” 

“You need to stop talking about my father.” 

“Why? Why, Mick? You don’t think I earned the right to a fucking opinion after all that shit?” 

“Because I know what I’m doing! I’ve been at this for a long fucking time!” 

“I _love_ you. What happens to you matters to me. I’m supposed to fucking HELP you!” 

“I can fucking handle my father.” 

“You can fucking _survive_ him. I know that. But that’s a totally different thing.” 

Mickey shakes his head. “I don’t need anyone taking care of me.” 

Ian steps back. Just… What the fuck. What the fuck is Mickey even doing right now? He feels the fight abandon him. He turns back to the window sill and stares out at the empty courtyard, empty buildings. The sun is setting. 

“You take care of me all the time,” he murmurs, finally. “All the time, Mick.” 

“No.” 

“No? If I’m fucked up about something, you're _right_ there. What the fuck has this whole thing been except you trying to take care of me, even when I don’t fucking want you to? Even when I want to take the risk and just see you.” Ian smiles slightly and drops back on the window sill. “You’re trying to tell me I should have let that happen to you and spent the rest of my life living with the fact that I knew something that might have changed it, and did nothing? You think you’d do that if it was me?” 

Mickey sniffs. “It’s different.” 

“Yeah, cause you can handle it.” 

“Because I’m fucking _used_ to it.” 

“Used to WHAT?” Ian lets himself yell. “Used to people not giving a shit? Used to just shrugging off the fucking horrible stuff your father does to you?” 

“I’m used to DEALING with shit, Ian. And I could have fucking dealt with that shit, too.” 

“Not from ME. Not from someone who actually loves you.” 

Ian can feel that hit Mickey. Can even see the shock and pain of it in the way Mickey’s mouth twists. And it’s fucked up because Ian believes what he’s saying. He does. But he can tell it has an implication that hurts Mickey. The idea that his father just doesn’t fucking care. And Ian does know what that feels like. 

“Look. I’m not saying I know what I’m doing, Mickey,” Ian sighs, finally. “You’re the only person I’ve ever loved like this. And you’re the only person I’m ever _going_ to love like this. I just don’t know how I’m supposed to let people hurt you if I can stop it. What the fuck happens after I just watch that happen? What do you think of me then?” 

“It wouldn’t have _mattered_.” Mickey sounds worn out. 

“It would to me.” 

He feels something bubbling inside Mickey. Something like that despair, but mixed with hope and affection. He looks at Ian and gestures helplessly. “And what the fuck was supposed to happen to me after I watched my father fucking strangle you right in front of me?” 

“But you fucking stopped that.” he says, softly. 

“Murder’s a little more permanent than--” 

“It’s all fucking permanent, Mickey.” 

This is as far as he’ll push it. Ian silently makes that promise to both of them, because he knows Mickey doesn’t want to acknowledge what was actually going down. So fine. He’ll let it go. Just as long as his soulmate knows it’ll never be “nothing” to him.

“We don’t know what would have happened if I hadn’t said anything,” Ian allows, finally. “But, Mickey. I fucking couldn’t. I couldn’t read you and see that and know what he wanted and just…” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry if I made it worse.” 

Mickey nods a few times, eyes trained anywhere but Ian. The tension coming off him is overwhelming, but Ian watches him trying to stay as calm as possible. Mickey paces a few steps, takes an unsteady drag. Then he tosses down his cigarette and crosses to Ian in three steps. Ian barely has time to react, his own cigarette dropping from his fingers and flitting down his shirt to fall on the pavement as Mickey grabs his face, tips his head back and kisses him. Again. It’s deep and possessive and … god. It’s grateful. Ian closes his eyes and lets his fingers wrap around Mickey’s wrist, holding his hands where they are. 

***

**Thursday**

“Hey.” 

“Hey.” Ian clears his throat. “It’s Thursday.” 

“Yeah.” 

“You coming?” 

“What’s up with the family shit?” 

“Ahh… Deb accused Cousin Patrick of molesting her. So.” 

There’s silence long enough that Ian wonders if Mickey’s actually shocked. When he finally speaks, though, his voice is tight. “Guess that’ll do it.” 

“Yeah. It’s done. We get to stay.” 

The silence falls again and Ian closes his eyes, gripping the phone so tight in his hand he might crack it.

“Ok. I’ll be there in ten.” 

Ian waits out at the alleyway. When Mickey arrives, they don’t talk. He just follows Ian into the back of the van. Ian’s heart is pounding, and he gets the same unsettled, disturbed energy off of Mickey. They have barely seen each other in the past month, but they’ve never been so in sync. Nothing but worry and general distress. 

Ian snuck out that afternoon and tried to make the van a little more comfortable. Tossed the blankets in the dryer to get the smell of Frank out of them, and brought out his own sleeping bag and pillow. It’s not much, but it doesn’t have to be. He unlaces his boots, kicking them into a corner and pulls off his hoodie and t-shirt while Mickey does the same. It’s cool, but it’s not cold and he wants to be able to feel Mickey right now. 

They lie down together, facing each other. Mickey’s worry is written all over him. His teeth work at his bottom lip and Ian smiles, fondly, at the familiar gesture. He reaches out, brushing his thumb against Mickey’s lip, encouraging him to let it go. Mickey does, but the frown remains. Ian learns over and presses a gentle kiss against his mouth. Once. Twice. 

“Don’t fucking cry or anything.” 

Ian laughs but can feel tears surging to his eyes. “Fuck you.” 

Mickey smiles, finally, and melts into him. His arm reaches around Ian’s waist to pull him closer. They kiss and whole minutes go by. Neither of them wants this to go fast. They take their time, instead, slowly opening up to each other, letting each other in. Ian tries to memorize everything. Mickey’s hands rough against his skin. The way they feel when they slide into his hair. The gentle tug of his mouth, and then the soft exploration of his tongue. He traces Mickey’s arms and chest. He massages his perfect ass and thick thighs. He smiles some, and Mickey smiles back. And sometimes they get caught in each other’s gaze and the fear and weight of what they have to lose starts to pull at them. So Ian leans in close and nuzzles at Mickey's neck and they both ignore the damp left behind by his tears. 

It’s probably after one when he finally falls asleep. As sated as they can be, they lay back, twining their hands together and saying meaningless, stupid things in the dark. Talking about the van’s decor. It’s distinct smell. The shocks. Talking about anything except what this night really is. 

They slide back into their joggers and t-shirts because it’s getting chilly. Ian’s a little surprised when they lay back to go to sleep and Mickey rolls onto his side--his good side--and curls into Ian. He tucks his head under Ian’s chin, face pressed into his chest and his free arm slipping around his waist. Ian closes his eyes, inhales the top of his soulmate’s head, and wraps his arms around him. He holds him as tightly as he dares. 

The last thing he remembers thinking as he drifts off is that he can feel Mickey’s heartbeat. 

***

Love makes you unforgivably stupid. This is clearly the lesson Mickey is supposed to learn today. Because he’s pissed and he’s so fucking frustrated that he still can’t get a good rage going. He wants to fucking _rail_ about this. Tell Ian that everything would be ok if he just hadn’t told his father about the bond. That now everything is irrevocably fucked up. And he knows he never TOLD Ian that and he probably should have. But who the fuck wants to sit around with their boyfriend and talk about their father’s exact parameters for hating queers?

Truthfully, Mickey doesn’t have any fucking idea what Frank’s position on any of this shit is, either. 

It’s his fault. Ultimately. He didn’t anticipate that Ian would ever do something like that. Would try to step between him and his dad. And he should have because now he’s fucked up the one perfect thing in his entire life. He’s got to walk away from it. 

Except he can’t. And he really fucking can’t when Ian is overflowing with everything Mickey finds so hard to resist. So instead he is kissing him like he wants to drown in him. And he does. He wants to let this absorb his whole fucking life. There are people who just meet their soulmates, fall in love and then do normal shit, like graduate high school and get a job and buy a house. And Mickey never thought that was going to be him, but _fuck._ He wants it. Just a normal fucking life with Ian. 

Ian, who is pushing up into him, returning his kiss with equal fervour and holding on to him like this fucking matters. Mickey can barely think, but he feels his mind make itself up. Everything just slides into place and locks. He isn’t fucking giving up Ian. 

When he pulls back, panting and dizzy, he stares down into Ian’s face with something akin to shock. “I don’t know what to fucking do, Gallagher.” 

“I know.” 

It’s getting dark. Just a little. Ian slides his hands down onto Mickey’s waist and rests them there. He holds Mickey’s gaze like it’s nothing. Like sitting there, looking straight into the centre of Mickey, is easy. Like there is absolutely nothing to be afraid of. Mickey closes his eyes first because he’s probably always going to be the first one to look away. Because he doesn’t deserve this. And he might be about to prove that to both of them. 

“I want,” he loses his breath just on those two little words. “I can’t--Ian. He’ll fucking kill you.”

Ian doesn’t move. Doesn’t shift or pull back. Mickey forces his eyes open and peers down at him, trying to read his expression--like that’s going to help when absolutely nothing is coming through their bond. 

“Ok,” Ian shrugs, finally. 

“Ok?” 

“I mean. No, I’m not ok with that. But I kinda got the idea when he had his hands around my throat.” 

Mickey nearly laughs before remembering that this is absolutely not fucking funny. 

“I’m not kidding.” 

“I know.” 

The incomprehension has no end. “Well. I don’t know what we fucking do about that.” 

“We run.” 

Mickey feels something warm break open in his stomach. He lets out a quiet chuckle that’s nearly a gasp. “Just like that.”

“I’m not fucking leaving you. I’m just not.” 

“You’re not fucking leaving your family, either.” 

Ian’s eyes do cloud at that. “They’d be ok. It wouldn’t have to be forever.” 

God. It’s sweet. It’s maybe a little naive and Mickey wants to pretend it would work. That they could go far enough and get lost enough. Just vanish into some vast and empty part of America. He lets his head drop, pressing his forehead against Ian’s. Ian hums a little and reaches up to touch Mickey’s hair. It’s all so soft and he can feel this stubborn warmth and affection all through Ian. He’d decided this before Mickey even got there. There’s no doubt. 

“He’d come looking, Ian. He would.” 

“So let him look.”

Mickey exhales. He lets himself nuzzle at Ian’s temple. Breathe in the scent of his shampoo, and his clean skin. It’s been long enough that he can feel the difference between Ian’s buzzcut and his short curls. “I don’t have any fucking money,” he says finally. 

“We’ll get money.” 

“No,” Mickey pushes back, finally. “Ian. I’ve been thinking this out for over a week now. This shit makes my father homicidal. Even this bond shit, telling him we’d break it? I think it was an excuse for him to let you go, but it’s not going to stick. If I step out of line, he’s gonna come for you. And even if he doesn’t right away, the chance is always there. And it’s always just too fucking high. I can’t--” his voice cracks, catching him off guard. But yeah. He can’t do this. He can’t even think about what happens if he’s right. If Terry decides Ian’s just too much for him to take. “There’s nothing fucking worse to him than an Aaron Bond, ok? To him. To the people he runs with. It’s worse than just being gay. It’s the fucking worst thing I could be. And I know he hasn’t thought it all the way out yet. He probably just wants to pretend it didn’t even happen--but I promise you, it’s gonna eat at him. And he’s gonna take it out on you. If you give him even half a reason.” 

Ian swallows, nodding. His brow is knit and Mickey can feel the uncertainty churning through him. 

“Teenagers run away all the time, Mickey. We’ll figure it out. There are shelters and everything. We can go somewhere warm. We’ll get jobs. We can do it.” 

He makes it sound so fucking simple, and Mickey just can’t believe anything could ever be so fucking simple. But to go, he’d have to take eyes off his dad and that idea scares the life out of him. 

“I can’t risk it. Ian. I can’t.”

Ian tries another tack. “Maybe we’re not worth it. I mean, how much effort is he going to put into finding us? Realistically.” 

“Even a fucking one percent chance, I can’t do it. ‘Cause I’m a hundred and fifty fucking percent sure that if I hadn’t picked up that gun you’d already be dead.” 

Mickey feels the distinct unease that slides into Ian’s body. 

“Heat of passion.” 

“Stupid fucking reactive asshole. Ian.” Mickey steps back and looks his soulmate straight in the eye. “I should have fucking planned for this from the beginning. I always knew I’d have to get away from him, but I thought we’d get another year, maybe. I thought it might… I dunno. It all seems dumb as shit now. But you and Lip were right. The only place you’re really safe from him is if he’s in jail. It’s the only fucking thing that works.” 

Ian is fidgeting. Turning these ideas around in his head. “So you don’t want to, like. Break the bond. It wouldn’t make a difference.” 

“No. Probably not,” Mickey admits. “And I’d rather eat my own tongue.” Ian smiles and Mickey’s heart full-on skips a beat. Because fuck. He runs a hand over Ian’s hair. “I don’t think I could give it up. The bond.” 

“No. I… I’d fucking hate it. I meant what I said last year, but… I’d miss it. A lot.” 

“Yeah.” 

“There’s no way for him to know anyway.” 

“Yeah. Yeah. So even if we did, he could just decide we’re lying.” 

Relief is washing through Ian. He’s smiling and his eyes are shining. 

“It wouldn’t change anything, anyway. I mean, it would, obviously. But… I’d still love you. It wouldn't change that.” 

Mickey flushes. He wasn’t expecting Ian to say that and he realizes that he’s always thought of the bond and Ian’s affection being pretty intensely intertwined. 

“You sure about that?” 

“Yeah.” Ian reaches out and hooks a finger through Mickey’s belt loop. “Yeah, I’m really sure about that. Bonds don’t make people fall in love. I mean, they help us communicate and understand each other. And they let us be confident that we aren’t the only one feeling something. But I love you because I love you. If the bond went away tomorrow, maybe it’d be simpler? I dunno. But I wouldn’t stop loving you. I’m never gonna stop loving you.” 

Mickey’s breath leaves his lungs. It’s never been as fucking effortless for him to say those words as it seems to be for Ian--and he’s steadily grateful that Ian just doesn’t seem to care. He swoops down on Ian again and kisses him. Kissing him with everything he had to give him. Because christ, does he love him. He loves Ian so much he can barely fucking function. 

They break apart with Ian still trying to draw him in. Stubbornly refusing to let the moment in, pulling Mickey down into soft kisses that make his knees weak. He puts a hand on the brick wall to steady himself and finally pulls back far enough to look down into Ian’s face. He cups his cheek, feeling overwhelmed and desperate. 

“I’m gonna figure this out, Ian. I just need time. And I need you to be safe.” 

Ian nods. He pulls in a breath. “I gotta go.” 

It takes a second for Mickey to realize Ian’s not talking about the rooftop. He doesn’t mean right now. He means Chicago. He feels the truth of that sink in.

“Where?” 

Ian groans. He leans forward and pushes his face into Mickey’s stomach. Stays there just long enough for Mickey to start to worry if he’s ok.

“I got an idea.” 

*** 

**Friday**

Ian stares at his own reflection. He doesn’t feel real. None of this does. All week, playing a part with his family, putting one foot in front of the other, hoping all the pieces fall into place. 

They’re in place. It’s time. 

He dries his face with a towel and heads back into the bedroom. No room for thoughts or feelings. Just get the bag and go. 

Liam’s awake. 

That stops him. Liam, silent, contemplating a dinosaur. Ian steps to the crib and his baby brother holds it up. Like a conversation starter. He dips his head and presses a kiss to Liam’s temple. Murmurs “I’ll send postcards.” 

Technically he will. 

He grabs the bag before the feelings can catch up with him. He can feel a mounting panic in his chest, but he keeps moving. Steals down the back stairs while everyone else sleeps. Pulls on his camo coat and hefts the bag over his shoulder. Looking every bit like he’s heading out to ROTC at 5:30 in the morning. 

Mickey is still leaning against the van where Ian left him. Smoking a cigarette and wound up as fuck. Ian walks to him then stops. They hadn’t really worked this part out. It's not quite light yet. Probably too late for Mickey to be here, but the risk is low. Low, but not zero. 

“This it?” he asks, feeling Mickey’s rolling nerves. Mickey shrugs. 

“You in a hurry to push off?” 

The bus leaves at 10:30, but Ian isn’t telling him that. They’ve agreed to low information. 

“No.” 

“‘Kay. Let’s walk.” 

Ian’s insides warm at that. He didn’t expect it. They head off down the alleyway together, moving towards the L. Ian has his duffle slung over his shoulder. It's heavy, but he doesn’t want to switch arms. Wants to leave the hand closest to Mickey free, just for those few moments when they accidentally brush up against each other. 

“You should eat.” 

Ian has no appetite but agrees and they end up at a McDonald's. Mickey _buys him breakfast._ And it feels like such a boyfriend thing to do. In a way that none of that stuff they’ve ever done together does. They’ve eaten together before, but they always paid their own way. Ian wouldn’t have dared to spring for a slice of pizza. 

He eats the egg mcmuffin (with sausage) because Mickey wants him to. He drinks the orange juice and coffee for the same reason. They don’t talk much, but Mickey watches him like he expects him to disappear. It makes Ian’s chest hurt. He tries not to look at him. Give Mickey some kind of privacy to try and remember him. 

He’s so used to feeling Mickey’s love through the bond. It’s always been there. Ian had figured out early that he’d never read just _love._ Love is a _collection_ of feelings. He realized Mickey must love him not because he felt anything starry-eyed or swoony coming at him through the bond. He knew it because of everything else. Mickey’s nerves, his fear and his uncertainty. He knew Mickey loved him because of the way he’d press through all the worry again and again. 

Right now, he knows Mickey loves him because he’s full of bad feelings. An anxious churn of fear and distress and anger. But he’s sitting here, taking Ian in under the fluorescent lights of a Southside McDonald’s at 6 AM. 

Ian hopes Mickey can feel the love in him. Can feel it in a way that will stay with him. 

They get up to leave when they both silently acknowledge to each other that there’s no reason to stay. They don’t hurry. The streets are empty. A few cars. Even fewer pedestrians. 

They’re dragging their feet, but it still doesn’t take long for them to arrive at the station. Ian’s heart clenches so tightly in his chest that he momentarily loses his breath. He doesn't know if he can do this. 

“This is me, I guess.” 

“Yeah. I guess so.” 

Ian lets his eyes trail over Mickey one more time. Like there could still be something he hasn’t noticed. Some part of Mickey he hasn't adequately committed to memory. 

“You gonna be ok?” 

It’s an inane question but once this conversation is over… 

“Yeah. I’ll be ok, Gallagher.” 

Ian nods. Fixes his eyes on the pavement. There has to be something else to say. 

“Hey, hang on a sec,” he ducks back behind the stairs leading up to the L and puts his bag down on the pavement. He starts to dig around while Mickey stands by, at a loss. Ian finds what he’s looking for and grips it in his fist. Takes a moment to hold it, tightly, like he can imbue it with something. He stands and takes the small liberty of grabbing the hem of Mickey’s t-shirt to pull him just a little closer to him. When Mickey doesn’t resist, Ian takes his hands and presses the item into his hand. “Maybe… Thought maybe it’d be good. If you had something from me.” 

Mickey looks down, frowning. “Your hoodie.” 

“Yeah, just… I don’t know. It won’t be weird for you to have it. And maybe it’ll help.” 

He doesn’t want to own up entirely to what he’s saying. That this is going to be hard for him. And maybe it’ll be hard for Mickey. Hard in the same way. 

Mickey is still staring. He lets out a short, breathy laugh. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s… It’s good. Thanks.” 

“I kinda,” Mickey shrugs helplessly. He digs into the pocket of his jacket. “Just. Emergency back-up. In case something goes wrong.” 

Ian’s tempted to point out that everything is wrong right now, but he lets it slide as Mickey hands him a… sock. It’s a sock. Being used as a makeshift bag. Ian weighs it in his hand and can’t help but smile. “You sure you don’t need this?” 

“Fuck you. Just don’t open it now. You’ll have trouble before you even get out of fucking Southside.” 

“You know, I’m from here. I do know what I’m doing.” 

“Hey, put the sock away like I asked you to, please?” 

Ian grins and complies, bending to shove it in his bag. He pushes it about halfway down the duffle. “You got the postcards?” 

“Yeah,” Mickey nods. “I’ll mail them tonight.” 

The sun is rising and Mickey looks beautiful in the warm light and shadow. He lets himself look again, but this is it. They’re out of things to say. 

“Ok,” Ian sighs, getting to his feet. 

“Ok.” 

They look at each other. Shift their weight. Ian glances up at the street. Someone starts to go up the stairs to the L. He’s gonna have to do the same. 

“I guess--”

Mickey steps forward and pulls Ian into a tight hug. Ian can feel the tremor in him along with his own surging emotion. He doesn’t want this. God, he doesn’t want this. There’s no other way and Mickey needs this to happen. But it hurts. Even knowing that he’s not the only one, knowing that Mickey is feeling the exact same way--He closes his eyes and buries his face in Mickey’s shoulder. Breathes him in. Feels Mickey’s hand stroke his hair and rub the back of his neck. They have never shown this much open affection in public. He’s standing under the god damn L station. Right as Ian moves to pull back, keenly aware of how very much they look like two gay teenagers having a moment, Mickey suddenly moves up and presses a quick, warm and nearly chaste kiss against Ian’s mouth. And then he’s stepped back and the embrace is over. Ian stares at him, unabashedly. 

Mickey Milkovich loves him. Pushing through all of the bullshit, all the time. Ian has to make sure he remembers this. Because he knows there are probably going to be some moments ahead when it’ll be hard to feel it as sharply as he does now. 

Mickey sniffs and shifts his feet. His eyes are rimmed with red. “You better go.” 

“Yeah,” Ian ducks his head. He knows Mickey knows this, but he says it anyway. “I’m coming back. As soon as you tell me.” 

Mickey just nods. He’s done talking. Ian’s about there himself. 

“See ya, Gallagher.” 

“See ya.” 

Ian watches him walk away. Mickey’s determined stride, rolling his shoulders like he’s trying to physically shake off what is happening to them. He watches Mickey walk away because it’s the only thing he can do. He knows Mickey won’t look back, because they’re a lot alike that way. Mickey’s got to keep moving. So does he. 

Still. He stands here, in his gear, for a good five minutes before he moves. When he does, it’s quick. Filling his lungs with the early morning air and hoisting his duffle up over his shoulder. An older man heading for the stairs catches his eyes and gives him a salute. People used to do that back when Ian cared about ROTC and he always liked it. He plays along now, returning the gesture. Trying to remember what it felt like to be that kid. 

He doesn’t have to hurry, but there’s no reason to stay in Southside longer than he has to. He moves up the stairs and navigates the turnstill, heading up to the train platform. This feels surreal. He toys with just waiting on a bench, watching the sun make its final rise, but when the next train comes, he gets on. Watches the time as he starts to move across the city. 

At 7:15, knowing it’s no better time to call than 5:30 AM would be, he flips open his phone and pulls up his contacts. It takes five rings for the phone to pick up. 

“Hi, baby!” 

“Hey, Monica.” 

“You coming today?” 

He has told her several times that he’s coming today. But every time he said it, he could tell this conversation was in his future. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m coming today.”

“What time does the bus come in? I’ll come meet you!” 

It is never a good idea to set himself up to rely on Monica, but he’s already feeling the fatigue and deep sadness that comes with what he’s about to do. 

“1:30. But you can just give me your address. I’ll find a way to get out there.” 

“Oh, no, honey. It’s far! I can get into Milwaukee for 2:00. That’s fine.”

“1:30,” Ian repeats. 

“Yeah! Yeah, 1:30. I can’t wait to see you, honey. We’re gonna have so much fun.” 

Ian lets his eyes close. He’s done pretty well with the tears, but they are fucking inevitable.

“Yeah. Yeah, we’ll have fun.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The events of this chapter are taking place just before and during 3x8: Where There’s A Will. In the OG timeline, this is the episode where school starts, the entire Gallagher family have the story with Patrick and the house theft. 
> 
> This chapter also heavily references 3x12, which takes place in December…. So we have Ian leaving town several months early this time. 
> 
> Thank you again and again to everyone who is reading, and who has left me any encouragement. The longer I work on this, the more profoundly I appreciate it ;) 
> 
> **Next: Chapter Seven: On Fire** Ian and Mickey try to go it alone, but both end up making new… friends.


	8. On Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey’s life returns to something that might be considered normal. Ian’s life takes a drastic right turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got a lotta story to get through here, so the format of this chapter is a little different -- but may be familiar to anyone who read Reward. (But with no time shifting this time. This is all linear.) 
> 
> I really, really never intend to miss a week, so I really apologize for that. This chapter was just a whole lot to get through and organize. It IS roughly twice as long as most of the chapters so far! So while late, it’s sorta like getting two at once. 
> 
> **Content warning:** Tags have been updated, so check them out if you are concerned. I’ll put something more detailed at the end.

**WEEK ONE**

The morning Ian leaves, Mickey wanders aimlessly until the sun is fully up in the sky. Then he finds a park bench, sits down, and smokes until his lungs burn. 

He’s never believed in long distance relationships. He didn’t particularly believe in relationships, period, before Ian. And when they battled this out, negotiating the terms of their open-ended separation, Ian had wanted fidelity and promises and Mickey had denied them outright. Whatever we need to do to survive this. Whatever we need to do to make this easier. It’s all on the table. The only promise he wanted was that Ian would come back when it was safe. 

He knew Ian found that painful, but he agreed. Now Mickey can’t stop thinking about it. About why he didn’t want to make simple fucking promises to the person he loves the most. Why he didn’t take the risk of going with him. What he thinks is going to get him out of this situation with a hope in hell of being with Ian in the end. 

His stomach hurts already. It’s even worse than going into juvie. He’d been freaked out then. He’d never told Ian, explicitly, what it felt like, those first few days after they bonded. He had thought it would be simple. He had thought he could just shut it down. But Ian was already so far under his skin. Just the way he’d looked at him, touched him, _wanted_ him. He couldn’t stop himself from running back over every single moment of their encounter. And the more he did it, the more desperate he felt. The more his fear turned away from what his father would do and turned towards what he might have just thrown away. His i> soulmate. A soulmate he knew he could love. 

So yeah. When he went to see Ian again, he’d been kinda strung out. Not quite sleeping enough and desperately scared that he’d lost a chance to have a life he’d never even imagined. And Ian had just smiled and held on to him and looked at him with his bright eyes and dopey smile, like Mickey was all he’d ever wanted. 

That might have been all it took. Mickey wasn’t great at teasing out exactly when all his feelings about having a soulmate had shifted into specific feelings about Ian. But by the time he went to juvie--something he arguably could have avoided--the idea of being away from Gallagher was profoundly unappealing. 

Still. He’d sort of thought it would be like it had been that first week. That he’d be experiencing weapon-grade FOMO. Just hungry to find out what he was missing while Ian was outside and he was in. 

Instead he was spun tight over the stupidest shit. His brain conjured all kinds of terrible misfortunes to befall Ian. Armed robberies. Drunk drivers. A sliver getting infected and going septic. Once he managed to quell the 50 Ways To Kill Your Lover obsession, his brain would turn to something else: other guys. If there was one thing Mickey understood, it was the appeal of Ian Gallagher, and he could not stop imagining scenarios where Ian was lured away by more enticing candidates that Mickey fucking Milkovich. 

It was bad. It wasn’t anything like normal doubt and uncertainty. He was used to being able to _feel_ Ian and when he couldn’t, he slowly started to lose his mind. When Ian would turn up, and sit on the other side of the glass where Mickey could read him, it would fade. He’d know it was in his head. He’d feel Ian’s warmth and watch him smile, and listen to him talk like they were friends… Sometimes Ian would talk about how much he hated being apart. He’d tell him how it felt and Mickey would nod and quietly marvel that anyone could feel fucked up and sad because he wasn’t around. 

He really never had stood a fucking chance. He was always going to love Ian with everything he had. 

But he can’t let himself go to fifth degree worry on day one. It won’t fucking work. He and Ian had agreed that they’d talk, but they’d keep it minimal and Mickey would have to be the one to call. Ian would be in the continental United States, at least. Beyond that, he wasn’t going to get too specific. Mostly because Mickey really didn’t trust himself. 

Beyond that, Mickey had insisted they keep everything as loose as possible. When Ian was back, they were together. Right now? A kind of no-man’s land. Still soulmates. Maybe not boyfriends. 

Mickey looks down at the hoodie in his lap. He wants to bury his face in it and breathe in whatever essence of Ian it might contain because he is that much of a lovesick sap at this point. He and Ian had never exchanged much in the way of gifts. He doesn’t even have yearbooks with his picture in them, because no Milkovich has ever bought their fucking yearbook. So he has this nondescript hoodie. He can’t even say what colour it is. Beige? Brown? It’s like the colour of sand. Mickey frowns, already feeling impossibly sad as he pulls his jacket off and slips the sweatshirt on. 

Enough regret and grief swamp him that it robs him of his breath. He tosses down the cigarette he was working on, leans forward and buries his face in his hands. 

He’ll give himself today. Today he can go home, get extremely drunk, and feel sorry for himself. 

Tomorrow he has to start to figure this shit out.

***

Monica is 47 minutes late, but what she lacks in punctuality she makes up for in enthusiasm. She fully screams when she sees Ian, and then runs across the bus station with her arms outstretched. She flies right into him, wrapping her arms around his whole body and jumping up and down on the spot with joy that can’t be contained. Ian allows himself a smile. 

“Hi, Monica.” 

“Ian,” she pulls back, just glowing. “Ian! Oh, my baby boy! How ARE you?” 

This is how Ian is: Ian is fine until someone asks him how he is. Then Ian is an obvious wreck. Such a wreck that Monica’s face falls. She presses a hand to his cheek and looks sincerely dismayed. “Oh, honey. I’m sorry you’re hurting.” 

“Thanks,” Ian manages. And he sort of means it. He has a healthy list of resentments when it comes to his mother. For some reason, they’ve always been sharper and harder to reckon with that the list has against Frank. Frank, who he barely thinks of as his parent in any fashion. He’s always known he was the one Frank had the least use for, but he’s never cared that much. Frank’s ability to hurt him is minimal and steadily fading. With Monica it feels like the opposite. Like Monica’s always slipping under his defences. She’s in a good mood, bubbling next to him as they battle a little over who is going to carry Ian’ bag--easily half Monica’s size--and she gushes about how he will have his own space and she just loves where she’s living and it’s all going to be great. He’d have thought this upbeat shit would be the last thing he wants right now, but instead he finds it comforting. He likes having her arm linked through his. He likes how happy she is, even as he tells himself it will not fucking last. 

Getting to Monica’s place takes the better part of three hours, though it’s probably a straight drive of 90 minutes. They take a bus to the outskirts of the city and then hitch from there. Monica’s good cheer never dulls, though Ian’s stomach sinks the longer they’re on the road. They get dropped off at a crossroad in the middle of fucking nowhere, and Monica bubbles that it isn’t far from there. They still walk about half an hour, past a couple of isolated subdivisions before getting to houses that are even more spread out and derelict looking. There are one or two nice farm houses with gardens and SUVs parked out front. But Ian knows they’re gonna end up at something a little less groomed. 

Sure enough, Monica sings “we’re here!” as they reach a long drive heading up to a modest bungalow with a couple of outbuildings. The first warning sign is that there are four cars parked on the property. One is up on blocks. A Honda hatchback looks drivable, but the remaining two are junkers he can’t quite predict. Monica gestures for him to stop when they reach the door, telling him to “wait here” while she runs into the house. 

And there’s the second warning sign. 

Ian doesn’t like Frank a whole lot. Like, in addition to kinda hating him for being such a shit parent, he doesn’t connect with him. At all. On anything. It’s always been that way. 

So it’s saying something that Ian also thinks Frank is the best man Monica has ever been with. Like, Roberta was probably ok. Questionable judgement. But the men have always been the fucking worst. Like Monica just can’t stand to be with a dude that might be nice to her. So standing outside of this shitty bungalow, looking at these shitty cars, Ian is pretty sure that he’s about to meet a shitty boyfriend. 

Monica hasn’t mentioned anyone by name, which is a bad sign. Ian always assumes there’s a someone. If it’s not a romantic partner, then it’s another addict or similarly disastrous person. With the partners, there’s the chance they’ll be smitten enough to leave Ian alone. Or at least be baseline polite. The people Monica picks up out of convenience can be less predictable. Might be mostly harmless. Might be absolutely deranged. 

Monica slips out of the house with a set of keys. “Tim’s sleeping,” she tells him as she starts to flit along the driveway, heading towards a brick garage that looks nicer than the house. “You’re gonna have your own room. Did I tell you that? You’ll love it.” 

Ian follows dutifully, as Monica leads him to the garage and then up an exterior set of stairs. She uses the keys on a cheap white metal door and throws it open to reveal a loft space that looks like it was maybe, at one point, a rental. 

A real cheap rental. 

There’s a “kitchen” at one end with a bar fridge and a tiny stove that looks just a little bigger than something Debbie would have coveted a few years ago. On the other side of the kitchen, he can see a small bathroom. In what passes for the living room, there’s a futon couch, a fraying arm chair, a book shelf and a small TV. The big disadvantage is the sloping roof, which is pretty steep. At six feet, Ian’s not gonna have a lot of room to move. 

“You staying here, too?” 

“No,” Monica is breathless, flitting around the space, trying to show Ian the half-height “closets” and the Ikea particle board pantry. “I live with Tim. But you have all this space to yourself! Isn’t that great?” 

It doesn’t smell fantastic, and it’s not exactly warm. But it’ll more than do. 

“Yeah, Monica,” he allows himself a smile and Monica’s whole body seems to lift with relief at the sight of it. “It’s great.” 

***

The next morning, Mickey wakes up with a hangover. It’s not as bad as he’d expected. He rolls over, shakes a beer can next to his bed and finds it’s about a third full. He chugs the flat dregs, then lays back, one hand tucked behind his head, and smokes like it’s meditation. Just stares at the ceiling, watches the curling smoke. 

He feels… ok. 

Ok enough that, when he’s finished his smoke, he gets up and wanders down the hall to the bathroom. He showers in daylight hours for the first time in weeks. Brushes his teeth. Avoids looking at his reflection in the mirror. 

When he’s dressed, he heads down the hall to the kitchen. Iggy and two cousins are at the dining room table, arguing passionately about a videogame from 2007. Mickey pours half a cup of coffee, grabs a piece of bread from an open bag and drifts towards them. He flops down beside Jamie and picks up a file, then selects a gun from the pile. The conversation dwindles and Mickey ignores the fact that they’ve all stopped what they’re doing to look at him. After a minute, he glances up at Iggy. 

“Fucking what?

Iggy twists his face into irritated confusion. “Welcome back?” 

“Go fuck yourself.” 

***

“Three days.”

“Fuck off.” 

“Three days!” 

“You can fucking shut up or I’ll hang up right now.” 

Ian giggles, laying back on the futon, letting all the good feelings that come with hearing Mickey’s voice wash over him. “But just three days, Mickey. I’m touched.”

“Are you done?”

There’s an edge of amusement that overshadows Mickey’s attempt at annoyance. “Yeah. I’m done. If you let me, I’d have called on Day fucking One.” 

“Mmm.” 

“You ok?” 

“I’m ok,” Mickey murmurs. “You ok?” 

“Yeah. I’m good. Really fucking safe where I am.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Hard to even figure out how I’d get into trouble out here.” 

“Don’t give me any hints.” 

Ian smirks. “You act like you’re gonna get possessed by some fucking insatiable need to see me and turn into Sherlock Holmes or something.” 

“Nah, Terminator. Hunting down Ian Gallaghers coast to coast.” 

That may be the most romantic thing Mickey has ever said to Ian. 

“You ever get that desperate, just fucking ask. I’m not hiding from you.” 

Mickey doesn’t respond to that. Ian figures it’s because Mickey thinks he should be. 

“You going to school?” Mickey ventures, finally, like that isn’t identifying. But Ian doesn't care about these rules, and while he’ll observe them, he’d not going to argue to make them consistent. 

“Not sure. Maybe.” He’s mentioned school to Monica. The response wasn’t encouraging. Ian still hasn’t met fucking Tim and his unease is growing by the day. He’s getting the idea that, while it might be ok that he’s here, it’s gonna be less ok if people _know_ he’s here.

“I mailed the postcards yesterday morning. The kids should get them Monday, Tuesday.” 

The idea of those postcards, which he wrote hoping they’d be calming for his family, take Ian’s breath for a second. He knows there’s gonna be a freak out when they realize there wasn’t a retreat and Ian isn’t coming back. Mickey has a letter for Fiona and Lip. Mickey plans to slip it through the door Sunday night. Hopefully the kids get the cards and think of Ian as being off on a grand adventure. And Lip and Fiona will understand that he can’t be there and will come back when he can. And they’ll let it be. 

Mickey doesn’t have a letter for Mandy. Ian and Mandy had talked and Ian had told her not to worry. But he didn’t want her running to Lip, so he didn’t get into it too deeply. He’ll let Mickey explain. And he’ll answer his phone when she calls. He’s not sure he’s gonna answer for Fiona or Lip. 

“You sure you’re ok,” Mickey prompts, letting Ian know he’s been ruminating too long. 

“Yeah. Yeah. Tell me about you. Tell me something.” 

“Something,” Mickey inhales, tipping off Ian to the fact that he’s smoking. “I dunno. Just kinda taking care of business. Have to move some shit this week. Nothing special.” 

This is going to be meth and guns. Mickey is rarely fucking blunt about the family business. Ian figures it’s his version of being protective. He’s always wanted to keep Ian and the Milkoviches in entirely separate boxes. 

“I feel like I should apologize in advance for my family.” 

“Just as long as they don’t come knocking on my fucking door.” 

“Maybe give Mandy a head’s up?” 

Mickey grumbles. Ian can’t help but smile.

“She’s gonna have to handle Lip, Mick. It’s only fucking fair.” 

“Since when is anything ever fucking fair, Gallagher?” 

Ian closes his eyes. He doesn’t have a great answer to that. “At least this time we got unrestricted phone access,” he offers, finally.

“Yeah. Just keep it charged.” 

Ian nods, even though it’s zero help in the phone communication game. “I opened your sock.” 

“Fucking don’t--” 

“Like a criminal care package.” 

Mickey groans and Ian can tell this is agony. It’s why the stuff in the sock was in a fucking _sock._ Mickey doesn’t want to explain. There were only three items and they were all pretty obvious. Mickey had slipped him a burner phone, a roll of cash and a butterfly knife. One Mickey used to carry on him all the time, that they’d use while shotgunning beers. And while Mickey might say it was for protection, Ian thought it was Mickey’s version of the hoodie. It was Mickey giving him something to remember him by. 

Ian had already taken to playing with the knife when he was feeling restless. And he felt restless a lot. 

“Just. If you need to get out of wherever you’re at in a hurry. If you need to just fucking go.” 

“Yeah. I get it.” 

“We need money, man. That’s gonna be my fucking focus. You just focus on staying out of sight, and we’ll be good. We’ll be golden.” 

Ian suspects Mickey’s trying to convince himself of something. But he smiles and tries to put as much warmth into his voice if he can.

“I know, Mick. We got this.” 

***

In some ways, going to stay with Monica was the obvious move. Like, on paper. To someone who didn’t know him. They’d probably guess that he’d go stay with his mom. 

It wasn't obvious to anyone else. It wouldn’t be obvious to his siblings. They’d be more likely to think he’d go live in the heart of a volcano. 

Terry Milkovich, Mickey had insisted, wasn’t going to go looking for him. Mickey being readily available, and Ian being invisible would be enough. And Ian figured the aspect of chaos Monica brought to every single thing in her life was enough of a wild card to make his movements pretty unpredictable. 

So that was the why. The fact that he was pretty sure Monica would say yes, and the fact that there was no fucking predicting Monica. 

Not in her movements. In her choices, though? 

Tim was exactly what Ian was worried he’d be. He was a little younger than his mother, maybe. Definitely younger than Frank. Hot, if you were into that kind of thing, but fucking humourless. Unfriendly. Giving off hardcore “Don’t Fuck With Me” vibes. Like Ian cared, in any sense, about what the fuck Tim was up to. 

But, like… Tim was up to no good. Clearly. He was a biker--maybe not formally, but definitely biker-adjacent. A biker admirer--which, if you have spent any time around real bikers is plenty unnerving. And he was involved in the drug trade, but not in a big way. This shit was not hard to read. 

It took days for Monica to decide to formally introduce Ian. Tim basically grunted at him and went back to working on his bike. The bike is the thing worthy of the garage space that Ian is living over. The bike and a small grow-op that Ian thinks looks kinda lame. Certainly not up to Kevin’s exacting standards. Ian has spotted a few signs that Tim might not know what he’s doing. 

The house, he finds out, belongs to Tim’s grandmother and Tim’s grandmother is in a home. Tim is not her only family and the family, Ian gathers, wants Tim out. Ian suspects that Tim’s a parasite, at heart, and is looking at Ian as a possible competitor. 

Which is fucking ridiculous, because five days in, Ian would fucking murder someone for something to do. He’s tried to approach the topic of enrolling in school a few more times, but Monica pushes it away, insisting he doesn’t NEED to do that and is smart enough to get his GED. Ian’s never, ever, thought of himself as someone who didn’t finish high school, so this idea isn’t taking root. A semester off? Ok. Fucking fine. But he’s graduating high school. He’s gonna bring at least THAT to the table with Mickey. 

The thing, though, is that Ian has never been someone with nothing to do. Ian was the kid with odd jobs when he was eight. He was already shovelling snow and raking leaves around the neighbourhood. He was helping Lip with some scheme and then chipping into the squirrel fund. He’d had actual jobs with paychecks from the minute he was legally allowed. He never, ever, sat around with nothing to do. 

But there was _nothing_ to do here. There was nowhere to even start looking for work. It was eight miles to the nearest town, and Tim wasn’t lending him a fucking car. 

It was sinking in that he was stuck out here. No way to finish school. No way to make money. No fucking purpose. Ian’s “room” was a garage apartment that had maybe been ok, at one point. Maybe even Tim had lived here, before Grandma’s unfortunate fall. It was hard to imagine who’d want to rent it. You could be small and shitty like this if you were in New York. But who wanted to go all the way out to bumfuck Wisconsin to stay in this cold, cheap, 200 square foot roach-infested hole. 

Because yeah. There were roaches. There also seemed to be mice. But what the fuck, the house he grew up in had both, off and on. He could handle it. 

What he struggles with, on top of the whole lot of nothing to do, is the isolation. Monica had helped him unpack the day he arrived--until Tim had called for her. Then she’d run off and told Ian she’d figure out “a good time” for him and Tim to meet. She swore up and down that Tim 100% knew he was there. Don’t worry. It’s all fine. See you, honey!

He’d seen Monica a few times since then. She’d brought him some groceries that first day--a box of Honey Nut Cheerios, a quart of milk, a six-pack of ramen, a package of American cheese, a package of bologna and a loaf of bread Wonderbread. 

The next time she came, she had six cans of assorted Cambell’s soup. He pointed out there didn’t seem to be a saucepan, and when she came back, she had a small pot, a container of margarine and a cactus. 

The fact that Ian didn’t seem to be able to have any authorship over one single thing--when he could see Monica, what food would appear, or what living things he might suddenly be responsible for--should have been infuriating. It _was_ sort of infuriating. 

But he also kinda likes it. Monica's visits and Mickey's phone calls were the only things that happened to him now. He is looking forward to telling Mickey about the cactus. He names it Linda. 

***

**WEEK TWO**

“Ig. Could you open the fucking trunk, already? Jesus Christ.” 

“You gotta work on your patience, man.” 

“You gotta work on your fucking attention span! This shit is heavy.” 

Iggy mutters something under his breath and Mickey knows he should fucking ignore it, but his capacity for any and all bullshit is nonexistent. 

“ _What_ was that?” 

“Fucking fine, Mickey. You don’t gotta do this alpha bullshit all the time. I fucking get it.” Iggy pulls the bag, loaded down with what feels like roughly two tons of unloaded, untraceable firearms out his hands. “You’re the meanest gorilla in the jungle or whatever the fuck. Can we go?” 

Mickey glares at his brother but decides it isn’t going to get him anywhere. Instead, he pushes past him, slams the trunk down hard, and pulls the keys out of Iggy’s hand. 

“I’m fucking driving.” 

“Biggest fucking gorilla in the jungle,” Iggy mutters again. “Fucking drive, then. Hate the I-94 anyway.” 

***

By the middle of the second week, Ian is starting to feel like he’s losing his mind. It’s clear that his very existence antagonizes Tim, and that Monica desperately wants him to just become invisible. Mickey has only called twice and Ian is starting to feel twitchy. He goes for a run on Tuesday morning--just a basic three miles--and the next time he sees Monica he finds out Tim doesn’t like that either. 

“He just doesn't like a lot of people around, baby. He doesn’t want anyone to ask any questions.” 

“I literally can’t sit up here and doing fucking nothing all day. Like, I can’t.” 

“It’s ok,” Monica soothes. “You know what? He was worried about your hair. Maybe just wear a hat next time.” 

Fine. He’ll wear a fucking hat. 

He takes his next run a little earlier on Wednesday because it’s sliding into four days since he’s talked to Mickey and his stomach is upset about it. He can feel it in his lungs and throat, too. He promised he wouldn’t initiate contact and he knows this is hard for Mickey, but he is fucking dying here. So bored. So much fucking time to think and NOTHING to fucking DO. 

When he gets back to the apartment he makes himself a sad grilled cheese sandwich because now he has a tiny, warped frying pan. Then he crawls into bed again, pulls the unzipped sleeping bag up over his head and tries to go back to sleep. Because being unconscious is the best part of his day. 

***

“Hey!”

“Hey.”

“Hey. Hi. Sorry. I couldn’t find the phone.”

“Couldn’t find the phone. Jesus Christ, Gallagher.”

“Can’t expect me to just sit here with my dick in my hand, just waiting for you to call.” 

“Is that your attempt at phone sex? Because it could use some fucking work.”

Ian snorts, rolls over onto this stomach and wills himself not to start to cry. God, he misses Mickey. He misses him in a way he didn’t even know was possible. Like, misses him while he’s talking to him. Is already anticipating that moment where he will not be talking to Mickey anymore and will be desperately, desperately sad about it. 

Fuck. 

“Where ya been?” He succeeds in keeping his voice even, but the task is Herculean. 

“Fucking Indiana. Basic shit. Just a drop I’ve done a million fucking times.” 

“Right back in it, huh?” 

There’s a dangerous pause and Ian buries his face in his one sad pillow. The pillow has actual feathers, but it’s old and fucking greasy when its outside of the pillow case. Ian is convinced that it has generational dirt. 

“What the fuck do you expect me to do, Ian?” Mickey’s voice is tight but less angry than Ian was anticipating. 

“Wasn’t a criticism. Just fucking talking.” 

There must be something off in his voice that time because it’s met with another protracted silence, and then Mickey says “you ok?” 

Fuck. 

Ian slowly lets out a breath and opts for a version of the truth. “Just miss you. Like, fuck, Mickey. So fucking much.” 

Mickey’s breathing gets a little faster and a little bit shallow. “Yeah. Miss you, too.” 

“You somewhere safe?” 

“Fucking Denny’s parking lot. Told Iggy I was gonna take a leak.” 

Safe. Not private. Not somewhere he can really talk. Ian rolls over onto his back. “I knew it’d be like this. Just… I dunno. Want you to know. I fucking hate this. I’ll be home the second you tell me.” 

“Yeah?” 

Mickey’s voice is soft and intimate. Ian closes his eyes and lets his stomach roll. 

“Yeah.” 

***

Mickey goes to bed that night thinking about Ian, which is nothing fucking new. He thinks about Ian all the time. When he doesn't want to get up in the morning. When he doesn’t want to talk to his uncles about whatever shit needs to get done this week. When he works out when he counts money when his furious sister glares at him from across the table. He just thinks about Ian, being gone, and what it’s gonna take to get Ian back. He needs to stay right. He needs to be sharp and ahead of the fucking game. He needs to make money, as much money as he can. He needs to stay strong and maintain his rep as a guy you absolutely do not fuck with. And he needs to figure out how to get rid of his goddamn father. 

There is probably a story in myth, or in the bible, or in fucking Shakespeare that Mickey is living right now. Some stories about ungrateful children plotting against their father while appearing to further all his goals. Mickey and Terry haven’t talked--not about what happened--and they won’t. Not right now. Not while Mickey is still trying to protect his bruised and/or cracked ribs. But Terry will bring Ian up again. Eventually. Probably when Mickey least expects it. 

Right now, his dad is begrudgingly accepting what Mickey is giving him--just straight-up cooperation. He hasn’t asked any questions, and he doesn’t talk directly to him or look Mickey in the eye. The few times Mickey has glanced up and caught his dad eyeing him from across the room, the expression on his face was one of disgust. He still sees Mickey as an Aaron Bond first, a soldier second, and his son a distant third. 

That keeps Mickey going, though. It’s clean. His life is always the least complicated when his father just flat out hates him. It keeps his head straight. 

Ian would make a dumb joke about that. And it’d be fair, because when he’s alone, all Mickey thinks about is his beautiful, affectionate, infuriatingly sweet soulmate, and his heart beats steadily against his chest. He wraps himself up in the sand-coloured hoodie, pulls it up over his head, and tries to calm his racing thoughts by remembering what it feels like to have someone wrap their arms around you and press their lips to your neck. 

He hasn’t--not once since Ian left--been able to sleep without smoking up first. 

***

**WEEK THREE**

Ian doesn’t even know why he feels so shitty when he wakes up on Tuesday, but he can’t shake it. He guesses he’s due. He hasn’t had a really bad day yet. The mixture of being able to talk to Mickey the little he can, and the knowledge that he’s helping by being away, seems to add up to the awful physical side-effects not gripping him nearly as hard as he was expecting. 

But Tuesday is the day his luck runs out. He hasn’t talked to Mickey in three days, and the last conversation was rushed. The temperature has dropped five degrees, so his hands are cold. And it’s raining. Dreary wet that is probably going to continue all day. He’s struck hard by how little he can do to try and make himself feel better. He can’t call Mickey. He could, conceivably, call home. The idea makes him immediately teary, suggesting that it’s a very bad idea. He misses Mickey so much it takes his breath away, but his family… they’re running a close second. It feels like something he shouldn’t touch. Mickey is _determined_ that Ian stay away. It’s in every interaction they have. Lip and Fiona would push for the opposite. Would want to fight this together. Ian knows that even the _suggestion_ of that would undo Mickey completely. 

The day Fiona found Ian’s letter, she’d called three times in a row before Ian had picked up the phone and shot off a text. 

**Ian:** I’m fine. I need to do this. I’m sorry. I’ll be back when I can.

The calls had stopped. For awhile. Eventually he got this: 

**Fiona** fucking asshole.

 **Ian:** I know.

 **Fiona** Is this because of Terry fucking Milkovich?

 **Ian:** It’s just better if I’m gone.

 **Fiona** Check in. Weekly. Or I will hunt you down myself. 

Mandy had been similarly livid. She was on board with the plan in concept but frustrated that Ian hadn’t given her more specifics. They had talked, once. His phone was pay-as-you-go and Ian was realizing that his isolation made his minutes precious. Additionally, there was no fucking way for him to make money out here. His mother was feeding him, after a fashion, but there wasn’t much talk of going into town. Ian had started running on the regular and was doing five miles with reasonable ease already. But into town and back was 16. It was a fucking half marathon. 

So he can’t call anyone. Texting people is pretty fraught, too. Lip would probably offer to come to get him within seconds and the way Ian feels, he isn’t sure he wouldn’t say yes. He feels too blah to go running in the rain and he has zero interest in the basic staples in the kitchen. 

He stretches under the slippery sleeping bag and rolls over onto his back. Doesn’t want to read. Doesn’t want to watch either of the choppy stations that come on the TV. Just doesn’t want. 

He’s starting to understand why Mickey wouldn't commit to them staying celibate while they were apart. He’d said survival and Ian had felt something deep inside him twist painfully. He’d had enough sex before Mickey to know that, while it got the job done, there was no fucking comparison. When Mickey would get jealous, Ian would tell him that. _Why would I bother with anyone else?_ It’s just less on every single front and would hurt Mickey as a bonus. Ian thought the idea was crazy. 

But he’s starting to kinda get it. The loneliness is crushing and it’d be easier for him to get a fuck than a hug, realistically. If he could even get some place where he could reliably find other gay men. There would definitely be a scene in Milwaukee. 

Though. Wasn’t that where Jeffrey Dahmer was from? 

Fuck. It doesn’t matter, because he can’t get there and he’s pretty sure it would ultimately make him miss Mickey even more than he already does. Which just leaves him feeling lonely, depressed, isolated and fucking trapped. With zero idea how to solve the problem. 

While he does, eventually, get up to shower and eat a bowl of off-brand frosted flakes, he is back lying on his stomach on the futon and just wishing for some kind of oblivion when he registers footsteps on the stairs. He sits up just in time for Monica to appear, cupping a hand around her eyes as she looks through the muddy glass window on the apartment door. Ian finds himself scrambling to his feet to let her in. 

“Baby!” she squeals like Ian hasn’t been fifteen feet from her back door for over two weeks now. She drops a box on the ground and throws her arms around him and Ian feels intensely and immediately grateful. For years, he’s responded to hugs from his mother by standing stalk-still, rolling his eyes and evaluating whether or not he feels like she deserves to have the hug returned. He doesn’t even think about it this time. He just slumps forward, burying his face in the top of her head and holding tight. Monica breathes “ohhh,” and tightens her grip on him. “Oh, Ian. It’s ok.” 

It’s pretty not ok, but he doesn’t care. He closes his eyes, feeling tears sting at them and just stays where he is. Lets Monica rub his back and coo at him and do all the stuff he never, ever lets anyone do because Ian has never really wanted to be the one other people have to take care of. But now he lets her usher him over to the stupid lumpy futon and sit down with him, with her arms around his shoulders, and her soft, surprisingly sweet words. 

“I’m sorry, baby. You’re missing home, huh?”

He leans forward instead of answering, resting his elbows on his knees and hanging his head. He pulls in a few unsteady breaths in an effort to not break down completely and just start sobbing. Because that feels like a real possibility right now. 

“Hey,” Monica murmurs, her voice betraying just a little excitement. “Hey, I had an idea. I brought some stuff.” She leaps up from the futon. Ian pulls in another effortful breath and glances over at her. She reaches into her rain-stained box and produces some truly past-prime bananas. “I thought we could make banana bread! Hmm? It’s rainy and it’ll be nice and warm. And then,” he fishes in the pocket of her jean jacket. “I got this.” 

She holds up a joint. 

Ian snorts, drops his head again and smiles. Why the fuck not? 

So they smoke together. Monica turns on a tiny radio Ian hadn’t even noticed was there and tunes it to a classic rock station. She turns on the oven, which warms the space up a bit. In addition to the rotting bananas, she’s brought chocolate chips and flour and eggs and baking soda, and she makes everything from memory, with a chipped measuring cup and an old loaf pan that probably belonged to Tim’s grandmother. She gets Ian to stir and talks at him about things she remembers from when he was little. 

Monica remembers a lot of really sweet things from Ian’s childhood. They’re memories he doesn’t visit much because they all have an equal and opposite reaction. A big trip out to a zoo devolves when she and Frank get into a fight on the L. Road trips end when one of their parents vanishes. His memories of Monica’s parents are vague and filled with angry voices. There are a few times when he can remember something exciting and fun, but then Monica just… unplugged. Vanished into her room and didn’t come out for weeks. 

But right now, he can remember why the good times felt so good. His mother can make little things feel special, partly because she seems to enjoy them so much. She dances to _Go Your Own Way_ while Ian stirs chocolate chips into her batter and watches her spin, with her arms up in the air. And Monica… Monica isn’t all bad. She’s bad at being there. But right now, when no one is here at all, she _is_ and Ian just lets himself stop thinking about it. Just enjoys his high--because honestly, her shit is pretty great--and allows her to pull him through the afternoon. 

It’s when he puts the bread, carefully poured into a margarine-greased pan, into the oven that he catches Monica’s eyes on him. She is leaning against the counter, looking at him in a way that Ian doesn’t know what to make of until she speaks and he realizes what it is: she’s looking at him like she loves him more than _anything_. Like maybe how most mothers look at their sons. 

“You’re so beautiful, Ian,” she sighs. “Every one of my kids is beautiful and special. I didn’t get one dud.” She smiles and it is so sincere. “And I know I didn’t do right by you. I know you’re all mad and you hate me--” 

“I don’t hate you.” 

“--I understand. But you did so good without me! Lip is so smart and Fiona is so capable. And you’re the whole package. You’re strong and you’re loving and you’re responsible. Our little soldier grew up into such a good man. And I’m proud of you. Every time I look at you I think _‘I can’t believe that’s my kid. Just look at him._ ’” 

Ian has nothing to say to that. He just stares at her, his throat tight. His mother--because for better or for worse, that’s what she is--reaches out and puts her hand over his. “You wanna tell me why you had to come out here?”

He does. He honestly does.

So he sits with her and they smoke a little more. The music keeps rolling with The Who and Led Zeppelin and Creedence Clearwater Revival. He starts small. He talks a bit about realizing he was gay. He haltingly tells her about Kash. Then she asks about ‘the kid from the van’, and by the time the banana bread has cooled enough to eat, he’s starting to confess the big stuff. That he and Mickey have been together for years. That they’re bonded. That Mickey’s father literally wants him vanished from the face of the earth and is the type to actually do it. 

Monica is a great listener. She’s into the story, her eyes wide, and her reactions satisfying. So sad when Ian feels sad and so delighted when he’s talking about all the dumb stuff he loves about Mickey. She laughs when he describes his knuckle tats in detail. Makes soft ‘ahh’ sounds when Ian tells her about how Mickey always drops everything when Ian is going through something. Ian leaves some key things out. He doesn’t talk about anything he thinks would make Mickey vulnerable. Not the Terry shit or about them getting caught. But he does tell her how hard it is for him to be away from Mickey. How it always makes him feel sick. 

“This time isn’t as bad as the others. At least not yet.” 

He and Monica are both stretched out on the floor together, at this point, gazing up at the ceiling. 

“How many times have you two been apart?” 

“Mmm. He was in juvie for, like, a few months. And then we just never wanted to do that again.” 

“Yeah,” Monica’s voice sounds dreamy. “I remember that. Me and Frank were like that.” 

Ian lifts his head. Everyone he’s ever talked to about his bond, and everything he’s ever read--no one has ever come back to him like it’s something they’ve experienced. “What do you mean?” 

“Just… Hated being apart. Being with Frank, in the early days, was like the best high. We had so much fun together. Do you guys have fun together?” 

“Yeah.” 

“That’s great!” She sounds so happy and satisfied with the answer. “That’s how it should be.” 

Stoned and more relaxed than he’s felt in months, Ian can still feel a distant echo of unease. “When did it stop being like that?” 

“Ah. Maybe after you kids? I dunno. Oh, but I don’t mean it was your fault!” 

Ian doesn’t point out the fact that his parentage suggests it would be pretty fucking hard for him to be the _start_ of the problem, rather than a product of it. 

“I never want that,” he admits. “I never want it to get like that.” 

“Oh, it won’t. You two love each other. Me and Frank, we love each other, too. But I guess we loved some other things more. It just got so we were always hurting each other. And when you have a bond, you can’t _ever_ get away from that.” 

Ian considers that. Specifically, all the times he’s done something he didn’t want to do, or thought was a bad idea, because it was preferable to hurting Mickey or letting Mickey get hurt. He never wants that to change, either. It would be fucking impossible to be the thing that was hurting him, and to know it and to feel that hurt all the time. He suddenly understands, for the first time maybe ever, why Monica runs. 

Ian’s too stoned to fully notice the car door slam in the distance, but Monica does. She sits up, swearing under her breath. “Tim’s back.” 

Ian groans. 

“I know you two haven’t had a chance to become friends yet--”

“Monica. He fucking hates me.” 

“He does not!” She shakes her head. “Well. Tim doesn't really like anyone, Ian. It’s not personal.”

Ian and Tim have not had a real conversation yet. Tim has grunted at him a few times. All of Tim’s thoughts and opinions have reached him through Monica. 

“You gotta go back to the house?” 

“Yeah,” she sighs. “I should go see how he is. He had to visit his grandma and that always upsets him. He’s sensitive, you know?” 

Ian does not know and does not want to. 

“You better go.” 

There’s no bitterness in his voice and he finds he doesn’t feel it at the moment. Tim is a problem that needs attending. And, he guesses, he does live in the asshole’s house. 

“Yeah,” Monica grunts with effort as she gets to her feet. “But I’ll come back later and see how you’re doing. You feel any better?” 

Ian glances over at her. She’s pulling on her jacket, but looking at him with concern and it hits him kinda hard. He nods, then rolls over and gets to his knees. He reaches out and grabs the hem of her jacket, reeling her into him. Monica looks mostly confused as Ian wraps his arms around her waist and presses his face into her midsection. After a moment, he feels her thin hand come to rest on the back of his head. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs into her stomach. “I feel better.” 

When he looks up again, Monica is beaming. She looks beautiful. 

***

Mickey is utterly unprepared for his Uncle Ronnie’s birthday party. He’s also utterly unprepared for the fact that it’s fucking October. 

But Ig drags him the five blocks to the party, leaving Mandy at home to fume over something to do with Ian’s brother. They end up at his cousins’ place, with a raging bonfire big enough to cause some unwanted attention, a fuck ton of booze and about half a dozen Russian hookers. 

He knows they’re sex workers from the clothes. He knows they’re Russian because he recognizes one of them. 

Mickey pivots on the spot and makes a beeline to alcohol because it’s suddenly very important that he not be completely sober. He’s already feeling shaky. He’d been planning to sneak off to call Ian for the last 18 hours and it’s never fucking worked out. His father is all over him right now. Not talking to him, exactly, but ordering him all over the place. He’s never been on so many fucking runs in his life. He’s moved more meth in two weeks than he usually does in two months. They have fucking run OUT of guns and he’s convinced, every day, that his Dad will have to face up to the fact that he doesn’t have anything for Mickey to do. 

But. Somehow. There he is, always sending a brother or cousin with him wherever he goes, and generally making sure Mickey can’t do the one thing he desperately needs to do, which is just make sure Ian is still breathing. 

It feels like a fucking test. It probably IS a fucking test. 

Mickey picks up a solo cup and pours enough vodka to fell a rhino. 

“Mickey!” A large hand lands on his shoulder in a hardy display of camaraderie so violent Mickey nearly spills his untouched drink down his front. He turns, eyes warily on his father. “Ronnie sure knows how to throw a party, huh?” 

“Yeah, Pops.” 

“Every fucking year, too. Can’t remember the last time I had a birthday party.” 

Mickey takes a swig of his drink. He has no idea if that sentence is a trap or not. His dad isn’t much on celebrations. Controlled substances? Sure. But no one puts the words “people person” and Terry Milkovich in the same sentence. 

“Me neither,” he allows, finally. Because no one in his house does anything for their fucking birthday. Last year, Ian asked when Mickey’s was and Mickey had punched him in the arm and told him not to be lame. He’d taken the hint. 

“You did good with the guys up in Indiana. They can be real shady assholes. Iggy says you scared the crap out of them.” 

Mickey smiles. Just a bit. “They’re pussies. As soon as I showed my piece they wouldn’t even make eye contact.”

“Always been good that way,” Terry nods, slinging his arm about Mickey’s shoulders. “Right move at the right time. You got good instincts, kid.” 

Mickey idly wonders what his father might be on. He gives half a shrug and takes another pull from his cup. It’s fucking terrible. Once, at Christmas or Easter or some shit, he ended up at a big Ukrainian dinner with people his Dad was into for something. They’d had good fucking Vodka. Like $80 a bottle. Ice cold, served in shot glasses fresh from the freezer. That shit had _tasted_ good. Mickey had been 14 or something and it had blown his mind. First real understanding that some people had shit that was just way fucking better than the shit Mickey had. And not cars or houses or whatever. But even stuff you _drank_ . Some people had so much money they could be discerning about getting shit-faced. He thought about that vodka a lot. 

“Here,” Terry’s joviality knows no end. “Let me get you a girl. You done good lately. Let me get you a girl. My fucking treat.” 

Mickey flinches. “I don’t gotta pay for it.” 

Terry steps back, brow raised. “You too fucking good to pay for it?” 

Fuuuuuuuuuuck. 

“I’m saying YOU don’t have to pay for me to get it, ok?” He tries to make that a joke, but it’s already gone so fucking wrong because the elephant in the room has just taken a massive shit right under Terry’s nose and he is looking at Mickey with that same look of disgust he’s been wearing for a month. 

“Suka!” he calls out and snaps his fingers in the air. Mickey’s stomach lurches. “Come here. I got one for ya.” 

Mickey looks into his cup as a woman crosses to Terry. He pulls her into his side, with a warm and affectionate squeeze. And Mickey has to look up. He has to. It’s the only fucking way to pull this interaction out of the fire. 

“This is my boy. You remember him?” 

The Russian lazily traces her eyes over Mickey. She doesn’t give any sign of having a fucking clue who he is, but his dad could give a fuck, apparently, because he goes on. “Mickey! He’s the chip off the old block, you know? Came out screaming, ready for a fight. Tough fucker. Smartest of the whole fucking lot of ‘em. His brothers could get lost in a fucking shower stall, though, so that’s not saying much.” Terry reaches out and cups the back of Mickey’s head, dragging him forward. “Mickey gets shit done. Don’t ya, kid.” 

Mickey is not drunk enough for this. He stares at his father, feeling his throat tighten like a vice. An agonizing mix of pride, relief and _affection_ is warring with flat out fear. Because when his dad is like this, Mickey is safe. Better than safe. Mickey can have a beer with his guy. He can shoot the shit or watch fucking baseball or practice target shooting with this guy. 

He’d never say this out loud. Never in a million fucking years. But he feels connected to him like this. Remembers his dad cheering for him in little league. Like, GOING to see him play and then clapping his giant hands together and whooping when Mickey got a hit or caught a ball. And, of course, he was fucking easy to disappoint and the disappointment was the fucking worst, but Mickey doesn’t think about _that._ He thinks about this. About Terry beaming. It’s taken over a month, but his Dad’s letting it go. 

Or he’s about to. 

“Just trying to keep up with you,” Mickey manages a smile and Terry gazes at him a moment, evaluating, before breaking into a broad grin. 

“Honey, you take Mickey here, you show him a good time. I’ll give the money to Sasha.” 

Terry rubs the back of Mickey’s head, still grinning his head off. Like Mickey is fucking magic. Mickey makes a ‘cheers’ gesture with this cup and downs it. 

He does not fucking cough. Because Mickey is not a pussy. 

He might stumble slightly as his father pushes him off to follow The Russian. He trains his eyes on the gold braid on the back of her cheap fucking slutty-ass dress and just follows that into the house. Because this is fine. He can do this. He can fucking _do this_. Maybe he can talk her into a handjob. Not a terrible idea, anyway. He’s had no fucking sexual contact with anyone since Ian left. They can’t even get into it on the phone because Mickey is never fucking home. Ian will still be flirty as fuck and it works Mickey the fuck up. Right now, all Ian has to do is say his name the right way and Mickey will feel all the blood in his body rush south. So he isn’t going to have a fucking problem. Doesn’t even need a picture. It’ll be enough to just think about the way Ian lowers his voice sometimes, and-- 

“Sit.” 

The Russian really knows how to spoil a moment. Mickey drops down into a hardback chair in the corner of his uncle’s… whatever the fuck this room even is. Where did she take him? Uncle Ronnie’s getting to be a borderline hoarder. There is a ton of shit in here… 

“What you like?” 

Mickey drags his thoughts back to the moment at hand. The vodka might be cheap, but it’s not ineffective. 

“Just get me off,” he mutters, leaning back in the chair and dropping his head. “Whatever’s fucking easiest.” 

His hands go for his belt and Mickey’s stomach lurches. He can fucking DO this. It’s sex. It’s nothing. Just like he told Ian, fucking nothing, and he can deal, and this DOES NOT matter. He is not going to start thinking about Ian pulling at his belt, or Ian smiling at him and laughing and manhandling him to shove him against the wall or the fence of the bars under the fucking bleachers. And if he IS going to think about that shit, it’s because it’s hot, not because he feels panicky and sick and just wants Ian back so bad he can’t breathe--

“You are rainbow boy, yes?” 

Mickey blinks. He glances up. The Russian is sitting back on her heels, eyes trained on Mickey’s crotch where a whole lot of nothing is going on. 

“What?” 

She quirks her lips. “I put you in my mouth, you close your eyes and think of men. Or maybe just one man.” 

“Ok,” Mickey pushes his foot against her thigh, trying to physically get her away from him. “We’re done.” 

“Your soulmate. _Кохана._ He go away?” 

Mickey grips both sides of the chair so hard his knuckles are white. “Get the fuck out of here.” 

“You have soulmate,” she says like she’s commenting on his finger tats. “You want him back.” She puts both her palms on her thighs. I have soulmate. I want him here. Both things cost money.” Svetlana shrugs. “Maybe we make money together.” 

Just fucking… _what?_

“What kind of money.”

“I have girls. We paid shit. Can’t make more than shit if you work for people. But you work for you, you can do better. Just need security.” 

“You want me to be your pimp.” 

“Protection. You little man, but you scare people. I have four girls. Easy to get away from Sasha. New girls all the time. I get four. Very pretty. Beautiful. Great tits. We get nice car. Nice clothes. Get on internet, make better money. But we need--what? Not pimp. I don’t work for you. Maybe _with_ you. Maybe you make money for not doing very much. And I make money for doing what I do already--but with nicer men. Richer men.” 

Mickey’s head is spinning because this is a fucking lot. Was she just going to lay this on anyone she dragged off to blow? Or was she, like, fucking _looking_ for him? 

“Where the fuck are you getting a car?” 

Svetlana shrugs again. “Chopshop. Escalade. We don’t own, but we borrow. You drive?” 

“Yes, I fucking drive.” 

“You drive girls, you walk to door, you get money, you wait in car.” 

“No. I got too much shit to do.” 

The Russian raises an eyebrow. “What shit?” 

“Just shit. Life shit. I got some other things on the go, you know?” 

“You mean daddy tells you what to do and you do it.” The look she gives him is full of disdain and challenge. Not fucking fair in his current state. “He say you take care of business. But just for him.” 

“Fuck you.” 

She shakes her head and he knows what she’s doing. She thinks she knows something about him. She thinks she can leverage Ian and the fact that she watched his father almost kill him--while she did fuck all, thank you very much--to get what she wants. 

“Is business offer. Think about it.” She pulls herself up to her feet. “I wait. If you leave now, daddy will know you couldn’t get it up for a woman.” 

“Being a fucking bitch isn’t exactly motivating me to help you out.” 

She stares at him a moment. “Every girl pay you 30%. Four girls, maybe two appointments a day. Money will add up.” 

“Two fucking appointments a day?” Mickey wants numbers. Numbers are clarifying. But all she’s got right now is a guess. “You’re doing a fuckton more than that right now.” 

“Handjobs and blowjobs all day long. This full-service. Less work, better pay. American dream.” 

Mickey scrubs a hand over his face. “Fucking fine. I’ll _think_ about it.” 

The Russian looks at her watch. “We give it two more minutes. Not too fast, but not too slow.” 

She smirks at him and Mickey glares at her in return, realizing belatedly that his pants have been open for this entire fucking conversation. Jesus Christ, he’s a mess. He starts to right himself. “So say I decide I’m interested. How do I get in touch?” 

“Come to Garden Springs Spa. Ask for Svetlana. Then we talk.” 

She waits a bit. Maybe a little more than two minutes. Finally, she looks up at him, raises her brow pointedly, and leaves. And he’s got a second. He’s alone and it’s maybe 10:00 and he _could_ call Ian. It’s a risk, but he’s starting to feel that edge. Starting to feel like, soon, he’s gonna be in that “can’t think straight” sort of place where all his brain wants to do is worry about Ian and their bond, and how fucking much longer this is going to go on. 

What could he do with more money? How far could they go? How soon could they do it? 

He doesn’t know. But he’s gotta start to figure that out. 

*** 

“Hi.” 

“Hey. Hey, Ian.” 

“Hey, Mick…. Are you drunk?” 

“Yeah,” Mickey slurs, then drains the last of the beer in his can. “Guess I am.” 

“Rough night?” 

“Fucking normal fucking night of doing normal fucking stuff which is always fucking rough and shit. I dunno. Fucking fine night, I guess.” 

“Mickey.” 

“Don’t ‘Mickey’. Don’t. Just listen. Listen.” 

“I’m listening.” 

“I love you. Ok?” 

“Ok.” 

“Ok.” Mickey nods, firmly. “Just you. Fuck everyone else. Ok?” 

“Ok.” This time, he can tell Ian is amused. 

“Fucking miss you, though.” 

“Yeah. Me too.” 

“Yeah,” Mickey rolls over onto his side, tucking an arm under his head. He closes his eyes. “Want you here.” 

“I wanna be there, too.” 

“Mmmm.” Mickey is way too drunk to actually do anything, but he likes Ian’s words and he likes how they make him feel. 

“You know what I’d do if I was there?” 

“No. Tell me.” 

“I’d make you drink a big glass of water.” 

Mickey snorts. “Fuck you.” 

“At least one. Maybe two.” 

“Fucking tease.” 

“Fucking tease who loves the shit out of you, Mickey.” 

“Yeah,” Mickey says, agreeably. He feels sleepy and a little warmer. A little better. 

“Yeah. You falling asleep?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Ok. Cause it’s the middle of the fucking night, you drunk asshole. So I’m gonna let you go sleep.” 

“Ok.” 

“Ok.” 

***

**WEEK FOUR**

So the Gallagher House had roaches, sometimes. And when they did, they got Roach Shit and they put it behind appliances, and it generally diminished their presence. Fiona usually got on it pretty fast. 

So this is the first time Ian has ever experienced what could be called an infestation. 

There are signs when a roach problem is out of control, but Ian hasn’t had access to the internet since he got out here, so it takes a while for him to put it all together. First of all, the weird yellow-brown streaks on the white plastic that covers the particleboard cupboards? 

That’s from roaches. 

The tiny black poppy-seed “dirt” he’d cleaned out of drawers? 

Roach shit. 

The random oblong tiny cocoon thing he finds in the back of the pantry? 

Roach eggs. 

And then, of course, there’s the fucking _roaches_. That scatter when he flips on the bathroom light, and that he occasionally kills when he sees them crawling up a wall. But his first truly nightmarish moment, he’s brushing his teeth and sees one crawl into the outlet by the sink. Tired and unwilling to truly consider possible outcomes, he spits, rinses his mouth and then wanders into the kitchen where he digs an old can of Raid out from the cupboard under the sink. His mind is occupied with other concerns--primarily missing every single thing he can think of about Chicago--when he sprays the stream of poison directly into the wall where the roach had fled. 

The roaches _pour_ out of the wall. It’s the only verb that fits. He yells and drops the can in shock. Ten minutes later, he thinks he’s managed to kill them all, mostly with a hand wrapped in toilet paper. It’s fucking disgusting, though. He’s breathed in too much Raid. He feels sick. 

He sits for a few minutes when it’s done. Staring at the wall and trying to gather himself. He needs to do something about this. This cannot be good. Roach populations don’t tend to _decline._ If Monica won’t help him, he’s going to have to figure it the fuck out himself. 

He’s gotten up to six miles running and can probably push to eight without much difficulty. Ian’s always been able to handle physical shit. He can always push what his body can do up a notch or two. He wasn't running much in Chicago, but it’s been a month. He’s maybe pushing more than he should. But he’s fine. He feels fine. 

He’s still jittery, though, when he sees his mother come out of the back door. They have worked out a texting signal system, at least. Though Ian would appear to have much better coverage than her if response time is any indication. He’s pacing a little, dressed for his run, but not for standing out behind the house waiting around. He darts forward the second the door slams. 

“I need you to get me some stuff.” 

“Baby, you ok?” She looks worried, but her eyes are unfocused. Ian doesn’t have time for it. 

“The apartment’s got roaches. I need Boric Acid, ok? That’s what Fi uses. It’ll work.” 

“Mmmm,” Monica nods, a little vaguely. “I’ll see what Tim has--” 

“Monica. You gotta go into town sometime, right? Can you just…. I mean, ask him. It’s his place. He can’t want this. I’ll solve the problem. I just need shit to do it. That’s all.” 

“You sure you’re ok, honey? You look a little flushed.” 

He resists telling her that he’s FINE, just mildly traumatized. Instead, he backs away. “Gotta go. Gotta burn some energy. But Boric Acid. Maybe that Combat gel. It’s fucking bad.” 

He leaves her standing in the middle of the backyard. 

**

The morning after Ronnie’s party, Mickey wakes up to a truly brutal hangover and thinks that Ian was right. He should have had the water. 

His brain trips over that, though. Ian? There was no Ian. Ian is gone. 

He stumbles to the bathroom. Wretches, but doesn’t throw up. Then drinks two big tumblers of water straight from the tap. He feels bad enough that getting the lid off the childproof bottles of painkillers is work. God fucking damn. 

It isn’t until he’s pissed, brushed the swamp out of his mouth, and stumbled back to bed that he thinks again about Ian and frowns. 

Did he talk to Ian last night? 

He picks up his phone and clicks through to the call log. And yeah. 3 AM. Ian. 

Well. That was stupid. He should make a new rule for himself: no drinking himself into oblivion. And if he really has to, he should try and call Ian first, because now he just has to hope he was smart enough to do that while he was alone. 

He thinks he was. His brain feels satisfied with it. No alarm bells. Mostly warm feelings. So Ian must have been ok. He tosses the phone onto a heap of clothes from the night before, rolls over, and goes back to sleep. 

***

Ian pushes to eight miles, he thinks. He’s working it out by markers and pace. Eight miles could get him into town, but it can’t get him back. But if he can modulate a bit, maybe he can do a long run. He hasn’t done that before, exactly, but he’s read about it… He needs more information. The lack of it is getting to him. The lack of fucking everything is getting to him. 

If Monica doesn’t get anything, he can do it himself. He can hitch back. Tim is weird about people knowing Ian is there, but if he can get somewhere, then… Fuck. he doesn’t really know the area. He could wind up fucking anywhere.

He has to figure this out. He has some money. He has enough for fucking boric acid. And maybe a few rolls of cling wrap. He’s tempted to wrap everything he owns in fucking plastic. 

The run hasn’t slowed his mind down at all. Back in the apartment, he’s still pacing. He can feel the fatigue, but somehow it isn’t stopping him from moving. It’s just that he knows they’re there. He knows they’re in the walls now, set to pour out at him… fuck. Fucking unsettling. He should sit. He should read a fucking book or something. 

He tries. He picks up a Dave Barry book that he’d found on the shelf and he tries to distract himself. His brain just won’t grab on. The harder he tries to direct it to South Florida weirdness, the more it wants to look for cockroaches. 

He eventually opts to take a shower, mostly for something to do. Lets the water--which is at least passably hot--soothe him a little. Lets himself think a bit about Mickey. His phone call the night before. How it was just fucking nice to hear his voice. Drunk Mickey wasn’t wound as tight and he made Ian laugh. Made Ian feel all kinds of things. 

He’s maybe a little calmer when he gets out of the shower. Once he’s dressed and has towel-dried his hair as best he can. It doesn’t last that long, though. He still struggles to sit still, still doesn’t want to read the fucking book. He just wants to hunt down every single insect in the building and do them all in. 

He’s revving up into another keyed-up state of panic when he hears footsteps on the stairs. He’s on his feet in a heartbeat, darting across the room and throwing open the door before Monica is even halfway through her ascent. 

“Baby,” she coos. “I found some stuff.” 

Found. This is not promising. She has another box and Ian is not interested in bananas today. 

“I need the stuff that _kills_ them.” 

“Well, I got some of that,” she tips the box so that he can see the content. She has three boxes of roach motels, suggesting this isn’t a new problem. They’re the sticky ones you fold into a box. Cheap as fuck. She also has another half-can of Raid, which now makes Ian feel unsettled. Like all this is the fucking Raid’s fault. If it wasn't for Raid, he’d never know how many bugs were in his walls. There’s no white powder and there’s no gel. Ian rubs his hands over his face. “This isn’t going to help.” 

“It’ll help!” Monica insists as she pushes past him. “I’ve had to deal with roaches so many times! It’ll get better. You’ll see.” 

Ian isn’t convinced but he has no fucking choice so he follows her inside. “Yeah, I’ve had to deal with roaches before, too. This is some next-level shit.” 

“Ohhhh. What happened?” 

As always Monica is a great audience for a fucked up story, so Ian explains this morning’s adventure while she starts to fold the sticky sheets into their motel form. She’s appropriately horrified, but he gets the feeling she’s not totally comprehending how much this bothers him. He’s not phobic about much. He really doesn’t care about bugs or spiders or any of that shit. But the _volume._ The fact that he didn’t know they were there. 

“Well. I guess you know not to shoot Raid at the outlets anymore!” Monica sings, and Ian desperately wants to point out that it isn’t the fucking point when she starts to search out spots for her motels. 

“Roaches like water,” she says, opening the cupboard under the sink. “Tight spaces. And warm places. We gotta put these where they hang out. I’ll show you.” 

They put them in the silverware drawer, which makes Ian feel a little nauseated, and behind the toilet. In the corner under the sink. The medicine cabinet. Beside the fridge, and under the stove. Ian feels a little sense of control return. Thinks maybe he’ll be able to stop pacing, at minimum. 

“You worried?” Monica asks as they settled down in the living room. 

“Sorta always worried, I guess.” 

“Yeah. I know this isn’t easy for you, honey.” 

It isn’t. But there’s no point in telling Monica that. It would just lead to all the ways she can’t help make it any easier. “I’m just not used to having this much time to think.” 

“Mmm. Well.” Monica reaches into a pocket and pulls out another joint. Ian smirks, breathing a laugh out through his nose. “Think this’d help?” 

“Yeah,” Ian admits. “I think it would.” 

***

Apparently his father is giving Mickey Saturday off because no one comes to wake him until after three, and when they do, it’s Mandy. With food. It’s eggs, bacon and toast. The bacon’s cold, like it was cooked hours ago, but the rest of it was clearly made for the occasion. He sits up, frowning. 

“What the fuck is this?” he asks as she hands off the plate and sits at the foot of his bed. 

“Fucking breakfast. I dunno. Figured you were hungover as shit.” 

“You see me last night?” 

Mandy gives a half nod. “Iggy basically dragged you back. How much did you have to drink?” 

A fucking lot, he figures. He doesn’t remember things super clearly after his talk with… whatever the fuck her name was. He should have written down the name of that fucking massage parlour because he clearly murdered whatever brain cells had hung on to that information. “It was a party. What the fuck are you on my case for?” 

Mandy looks pointedly at the food she brought him. “You fucking miss him, huh?” 

“Of course I fucking miss him,” Mickey mutters into a piece of toast. 

“You talk to him at all?” 

“Why the fuck are you asking me this shit?” 

Mandy jiggles her legs a little. Like she’s anxious about something. “Just miss him, too. Lip gets pretty fucking uptight when his name comes up. So. I dunno.” 

“Gallaghers know what’s up?” 

“Lip knows he’s gone and it’s over a guy. I guess Ian told Fiona about you. She cornered me last time I was over there.” 

“Yeah. Didn’t know if she clued in the rest of ‘em.” 

“Probably Ian told her not to.” 

“Probably.” 

They fall into silence. Mickey is finding that he was fucking ravenous. And this isn’t the first time that Mandy has brought him food since this whole thing started. She did it a few times when he was too fucked up to get out of bed, right after everything went to shit. But it was more like a sandwich on a plate. Less of a production. He dimly wonders what’s up. 

“You guys worry about that bond separation whatever?” she ventures, finally. 

“Malaise.” Mickey had never felt anything like a malaise about Ian. Nothing that muted or controlled. “We talk sometimes.” 

“Yeah, he told me that. Says it keeps things ok.” 

“Then why the fuck are you asking me about it?” 

“‘Cause I don’t know what you’re doing, Mick. It’s like you’ve gone right back to being Dad’s right-hand man. Like, what the fuck?”

“I’m fucking working on it, Mandy.” 

“Okay.” 

“I want him back as much as you do.” 

Mandy keeps bouncing her leg. “I know.” 

Mickey pushes himself into the corner of the bed and the wall. The plate is hot in his hands, so he tries to settle it on his lap, over the blanket. He pokes at the eggs with a fork. 

“I kinda got some options. I’m trying to figure it out. I just… I don’t know. I figure Dad’s gonna blow his parole at some point. And if I can get some money together by then, I can go catch up with Ian. Let the business run here without me, while dad can’t get to me. And maybe he’ll see it’s better that way.” 

“You think he’ll let you go like that?” 

“I think maybe if I do it right, he won’t care.” 

“That’s fucking unpredictable, though, Mickey.” 

Mickey’s appetite is abandoning him. “What the fuck do you want me to say, Mandy? You got a better plan?” 

Mandy smirks, bitterly. “My plans don’t have a great record of coming together.” 

There’s something behind that. Mickey doesn’t push it, though. Maybe Mandy wants him to, but she won’t _expect_ him to, so it’s safer. Mickey chews slowly, just letting the silence stretch out until he’s got something to say. 

“It can’t be like this forever.”

“Probably not. But it can be like this for five years.” 

Fuck. 

“Not gonna let that happen.” 

Mandy nods. Pulls in her breath. “Just… If I can do something? I don’t know. Maybe you should tell me. Cause I kinda wish he was here right now.” Her eyes are shining, but she stands up. “Enjoy your fucking eggs, asshole.” 

*** 

So the good news is that the motels work. 

The bad news is that they are filling up fast enough that Ian figures he’s all the more right. He needs actual weaponry here. 

He also has a bug. Which is infuriating because who the fuck is he getting sick from? But he’s coughing and his lungs feel raw and stiff. 

Maybe it’s the Raid? 

It could be the Raid. 

He’s running eight miles really solidly. He’s just going to run into town, assuming he can fucking find it. Of course, knowing his mother, it’s probably not eight miles. It might be more like 12. Doesn’t matter. He can do it. He can figure this out. 

Or he can hotwire one of the cars. He’s not convinced they all work, but he can figure it out. 

The thing is, the cars, along with the motorcycle that lives in the garage, along with the mini-grow-op, make it really fucking hard to know if Tim is around or not. If the Honda is gone, it’s kinda a lock. But more often than not, he takes off on the bike. Ian’s sleep patterns have started to get a little weird. There’s not really anything to get up for, so there’s not a reason to go to sleep, either. And Jesus, he’s usually so fucking regimented. Even having thrown over the army because he bonded with Mickey, Ian still acted like a soldier in training. He still got up and did his crunches and push-ups. He still measured what he could do and tried to do more. Now, he feels like there’s nothing to ground him, and for some reason, he can’t get into a routine here. There’s stuff he does every day, but it’s never predictable. Even his sleep is all over the place. 

He feels ok when he’s showering, at least while he has hot water, and he feels ok when he’s running. Those are the best times in his day. 

The OTHER best times are when Monica shows up. He keeps expecting something to go wrong there, but so far, it hasn’t. Instead, she’s become this lifeline. And yes, it’s fucking frustrating. Tim is clearly a psycho about privacy, and doing basic things like grocery shopping is an ordeal. But that just makes it clear that she had to work to get to the bus station that day. She probably worked pretty hard to get Ian here at all. His mother _tries_ , which is something Frank’s never done for him. And he _likes_ her. They have fun together. He likes talking to her. In addition to being a good listener, she has some crazy stories of her own. He’s heard about a van trip she and Frank took across the southwest before Fiona was born, where they ended up in a campground overrun by skunks. She spent six months living in a car with a guy who drove around attending Phish concerts. She talks about what it was like when he was a baby and he realizes he’s never heard someone talk about that time like it was good. It’s always stories of abandonment and dangerously high fevers. Always about how hard things were. And he doesn’t doubt that version of events. But it’s nice to hear something else. 

Monica likes to hear about Mickey, too. Ian still edits pretty heavily, but he tells her all the stuff he likes about being bonded. All the stuff he doesn’t. She’s sweet about it. For someone who has such a shit time with her bond, he likes seeing her smile at him, and he likes hearing her tell him that he and Mickey will be ok. Monica is kind of a romantic. 

Now that he’s been here a little while, Monica comes by a little more regularly. She usually finds an hour to just come and sit and talk with him. Other times, she’ll show up with a project. Sometimes he’ll find her waiting for him when he comes back from his run. He hasn’t asked her if she’s medicating, but she seems ok to him. Not depressive, certainly. Happy sometimes, but not manic. He realizes he hasn’t really been looking for it. Hasn’t thought much about it at all. 

“Ian!” 

Monica is calling from outside, which she never fucking does. Ian bolts up and grabs a sweatshirt off the back of the chair. He doesn’t bother to put on shoes or pants as he exits the apartment, worried that something’s gone really fucking wrong. 

Monica is standing at the bottom of the stairs, her eyes bright and shining, and she is not alone. She’s got a big, hairy, delighted-to-be-there dog sitting at her feet. Ian frowns, pulling his top down over the waist of his boxers. 

“Ian, look!” 

Monica crouches down next to the beast and ruffles his hair. 

“What’s this?” 

“I got you a dog!” 

She got him a… dog. Of course she has.

Ian starts down the stairs, cautiously. “Um. Why?” 

Monica is rubbing the dog’s neck, cooing “good boy” and other praises as he licks her chin. “Because you need some company, and he’s so sweet, and he needs a place to live! Come on--” she gestures for Ian to join her. “Come say hello.” 

Ian has never had a pet. He’s found birds that have fallen out of nests, and for there was a squirrel that had a weird bald spot on its hindquarters that he made a point to toss his sandwich crusts to. But the Gallaghers and pets don’t mix. Even before Carl came along. 

“Hi,” he ventures and Monica shakes her hand. 

“Put out your hand,” she instructs. “Let him smell you.” 

It’s barely necessary. This is a beast who has never been hurt and he is all over Ian immediately, pushing his head into Ian’s hand, and then rubbing up against his legs. Ian feels his heart kick. He tousles the thick, curly mop on the dog’s head and the dog responds by panting happily. 

“Where did you get him?” 

“The pound,” Monica says, off-handedly and Ian tries to work out how that would have happened. “Wait. I got dog food!” 

“Did you get to town?” Ian calls after her. “Did you get any roach shit?” 

The dog is still nuzzling at Ian and he flops down onto the stairs. It tilts its head up and gazes at Ian with nothing short of adoration. Ian smiles. Just a bit. “Hey,” he murmurs. He pets the top of its head a few times and then brings his hands to cup its face. The dog pants, then the long, pink tongue appears and gives Ian’s chin a big, wet lick. 

It’s less unpleasant than he might have expected. 

“What’s your name?” He asks, scratching the puppy’s fur. “Huh?” 

The dog just gazes up at him. Pleading with Ian to love him. 

Yeah. Ian is probably doomed. 

***

“Heeey.” 

“Hey. What’s got into you?” 

Ian smiles. “Nothing. This is just the highlight of my fucking week.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. Even when you call in the middle of the god damn night.” 

“Jesus Christ.”

“You were adorable.” 

“Fucking shut up.” 

“Or you’ll hang up on me, right?” 

“Ian, so help me God.” 

“Where are you?” 

Mickey huffs. There’s some noise in the background. A clatter of something. “Back-alley.” 

“Back alley. Why don’t you ever call me when you’re alone?” 

“I _am_ alone.” 

“You’re always alone in _public_.” 

Mickey chuckles and four weeks of celibacy make even the sound of being laughed at pretty appealing. Ian closes his eyes, thinking about Mickey’s smile. Thinking about all the great sounds that originate in his chest. 

“You got a problem with that, Gallagher?” 

“Yeah. I got a problem with that.” 

“Hard to please, man.” 

“Hard to something,” he mutters, scrubbing his fingers through the soft hair on the dog’s head, which is currently settled on his thigh. The dog makes a groaning, sighing noise and shifts so that its paws are settled possessively on Ian’s shin. 

“What the FUCK was that?” 

Ian grins. “What do you think it was?” 

“Sounds like fucking Snuffleupagus.” 

“Close. Got a dog.” 

“A dog?” 

“Yep. He’s pretty. Agreeable. Super into having his head scratched.” 

“That’s just fucking dogs,” Mickey sounds strangely huffy. “What you get a dog for, man?” 

“First of all, I didn’t so much get a dog so much as a dog got me. Secondly, what does it matter?”

“It matters because this is fucking temporary. You just gonna come back to Chicago with a dog?” 

Ian frowns. He’s had a dog, if that’s what’s happening here, for 12 hours. “When do you think I’m coming back to Chicago?” 

They haven’t talked about this. Lots of _I love you_ and lots of _I miss you_ , but zero _here’s a timeline_. Mickey is silent and Ian decides not to let him off the hook. Not because he’s pissed. But because… They’re on a hook. They’re both irrevocably hooked. 

“I’m alone most of the time,” Ian says, finally. “I know you don’t want to know what’s going on with me, but can I at least tell you that much? I’m alone a lot. And I’m not fucking used to it.”

And that’s a lot of it. He hasn’t even thought about enjoying the silence and the unprecedented privacy. If it wasn’t for the foreseeable future and if he just had Mickey with him, it’d be different. Maybe even the fucking roaches would be different. 

“Hey,” he ventures again. “You know anything about dogs?” 

“Nah, Gallagher. I don’t know shit about dogs. I mean, walk ‘em and feed ‘em, I guess. What else is there to know?” 

Ian gazes down at the baleful gaze that’s fixed on him. “I dunno. What makes them happy?” 

“I don’t know. Tennis balls. Soup bones. Scooby snacks.”

“Fucking miss Google.” 

“Can’t go to a fucking library?” 

“You really want me to answer that?” 

Mickey mutters something under his breath that Ian can’t make out. It must be a no, though, because of what he says next. “You want me to google happy dogs for you?” 

Ian smirks. “Yeah, Mick. Happy dogs. And how to annihilate cockroaches.” 

*** 

**WEEK FIVE**

The dog is a boy. And Ian names him Bo. And while he recognizes Mickey’s point, he figures Bo’s another nomad. And maybe they can make a go of this thing together.

Because Bo makes his life exponentially better. Ian has no fucking idea what the rules for dogs are, and he knows he’s probably breaking all of them, but he decides to just go with his gut and certainly, Bo seems _happy._ Ian stops running quite so much, and starts hiking. There’s a line of trees and then some fields out behind the garage and he starts to wander around them. Subtly, while anticipating that fucking Tim will decide to have a problem with it. 

Bo has a ton of energy, though, and can mostly keep up on Ian’s runs. Ian can’t as far and he doesn’t go quite as fast, but the dog can do a decent job of hanging in with him and afterwards is happy to flop down on the floor of the garage apartment and chill. 

Ian envies that. He’s always loved that moment of exercise when it’s over and you can feel your muscles, and the burn in your lungs and that deep relaxation that comes with having really used your body. He’s not usually tired, but he does feel kinda mellow after a workout, usually. But lately, he’s finding that harder to reach. Bo makes him aware of it--the pacing, the restlessness. It helps him take a moment to breathe if nothing else. And sometimes it pushes him out the door again, into the fields, or back on the road. Other times, he flops down with Bo and spends time pulling burrs and little pieces of vegetation out of his fur. It occupies his brain, at least. 

He’s really starting to lose his patience on the Bug Front. Monica still insists the motels, which are basically useless now, will help. And she did get into town and she did buy more Raid (and Jesus fucking CHRIST, he does not need more Raid) and then a box of Borax, which is not what he asked for. She tries to placate him with a carton of cigarettes, which is at least _something._

But whatever. Mickey googled it for him. It maybe might work and he hasn’t had an incident quite as bad as the one with the outlet. He still _sees_ them. And they collected in the sticky traps, so he is intensely aware of his little roommates. He tries to pour the Borax around the stove and fridge. Makes lines of it against the wall in the bathroom, where it immediately turns to paste with the humidity of the shower. It’s not perfect. And he wishes again he had any way to find out what the fuck he should be doing. But he tries. And then, on his hands and knees on the kitchen floor, he decides to do some deep cleaning. 

This isn’t the first time, but it makes him feel a bit better, so he starts to pull things out of drawers, and then turn them into the sink. He fills that with hot water and soap and the ads some bleach--because that he fucking has--and he washes out the drawer, scrubbing at every blemish. Satisfied when the dirt is moved and frustrated when a mark seems to be permanent. He starts with the set of drawers next to the sink and then starts to move, clockwise, around the whole kitchen. And he should have started this first, but he cleans out the cupboards and he washes all the contents. He scrubs down the face of the cabinet doors and then he moves to the walls. Finally, he scrubs the floor. It’s a grey, speckled linoleum that he hates because it’s impossible to get it to look clean. But he does what he can. He makes an improvement. 

By the time he’s done, Bo has long since abandoned him to flop down on the futon, because Ian’s never had a dogs-sleep-on-the-floor rule with him. He checks the clock. It’s 4:30. 

He brushes his teeth but doesn’t bother washing his face. Just strips down to his boxers and a t-shirt and flops into bed next to his dog. And he finally feels it, just a little. Just a tiny bit relaxed and a tiny bit like it’s going to be ok. A tiny bit like he can sleep. 

***

Iggy’s got a girl. That’s not so unusual, but this is one he’s fucking on the regular. Going on for two weeks now. 

Mickey didn’t expect it to be a problem. 

And it isn’t. Like, yeah, he can hear them going at it when he goes to the bathroom and shit. And he’s seen Iggy kiss her goodbye once or twice. And this isn’t WEIRD. It isn’t something that hasn’t happened before. 

But he is so fucking _angry._

Because it’s nothing. This is fucking nothing for Iggy. Likes a girl, fucks a girl, in his own fucking bed, under everyone’s nose and nothing fucking happens. Nothing. 

Mickey wants to spend his life with Ian, but the fuck does that matter? He loves him. They’re fucking bonded. But the second anyone knows about it, they can’t even be in the same city. And now he’s so wound all the fucking time like he’s always on the worst fucking drugs. He has to drink or smoke up just to shut up the persistent worry he can’t shake because he doesn’t know where Ian IS. 

He’s fought fucking hard not to think about that, but he is not going to feel ok until he has the answer to that question. It’s why he doesn’t want Ian to tell him anything. He can feel the pull to go to where he is. He knows some night he’d just fucking snap and he’d leave. 

Tonight he feels like he’s going to fucking snap and _kill_ someone, so he heads to the Alibi. Because maybe he’ll find someone in need of a fucking beatdown. 

But. Because he’s Mickey Milkovich and he has zero fucking luck? He finds his father. 

Terry is playing pool with some fucking Southside rando. He looks up as Mickey is ordering a shot and a beer at the bar and shouts “My boy!” Still with this fucking jovial good-time bullshit. Mickey smiles, but it’s weak. Raises the beer, but turns away the second his father’s attention goes back to the pool table. 

He finds a booth where he can’t see his dad, slides in, downs his shot and starts to nurse his beer. 

Ok, maybe not _nurse_. But at least not chug. 

He’s on his second beer of the night, slipping from rage into despair when someone slides into the seat across from him. 

“Go. The fuck. Away.” 

“Sweet boy. Always polite.” 

Fuuuuuuck. 

He raises his eyes and takes in The Russian. Whatever the fuck her name is. Olga, Petra… Svetlana.

Fucking SVETlana. 

Fucking witness to one of the worst days of his life. 

Sure. Here’s a target. 

“Not really in the fucking mood to shoot the shit with a whore after a long day of dick squashing.” 

“You have way with words,” she nods. “I buy you drink.” 

“No.” 

“I buy you what?” She eyes Mickey, considering. “Jack Daniels.” 

And she’s gone. 

Just what the fuck? Why is he being haunted by this fucking Mary Poppins bullshit hooker? And why the fuck tonight? 

But she does come back with the Jack and he’s not gonna waste it, so… 

“You think about conversation?” 

Fuck. He had. But probably not enough. He hadn’t really been sure how much of that had happened and he couldn’t remember the name of the spa, so… 

“Not really in the market for more problems.” 

“Mmmm. But more money?” 

As cultural references go, that wasn’t bad. “Depends on how much more money.” 

She nods. “I am stuck, you know? I think maybe you stuck, too.” 

He really isn’t into this thing where she tells him about himself.

“What problems you need solved?” she prods. 

“Got some unwanted company.” 

“You want your orange boy back.” 

Orange boy.

“Don’t fucking talk about him.” 

“I told you, I have soulmate. Back in Russia. Man, so cannot get over here like I did.” 

“Tragically left out of this sex trafficking bullshit, huh?” 

“If I could get him here, I could figure out how to… hmmm. Make it work.” She shrugs. “But I cannot get him here. Not like that.” She leans back in the booth. “And he would not like this.” she gestures at herself, probably indicating her For Hire clothing. “So. Is not solved by plane ticket.” 

“But it’s solved by money, huh?” 

“Money. For normal life, ah? Boring place, with boring job. Maybe franchise. Quiznos. Dunkin Donuts. No more ‘squashing dicks’.” 

“Bad news for your soulmate.” 

She smirks and Mickey maybe doesn’t hate her for a second. One second. 

“He will live,” she taps a finger on the tabletop. “I may be useful to you in more ways than one.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Your father,” she nods unnecessarily in Terry’s direction as if Mickey needs his dad pointed out to him. “He tough man with bad ideas. He not want fag for son. Yes?” 

Mickey takes a swig of the Jack and sets it down on the table. He stares at her, steadily. Because he is not answering that fucking question. 

“We work together, maybe he think you have girlfriend. Maybe I let him think that.”

“Not sure he wants me to have a fucking skank hand-whore girlfriend.” 

“Oh, I have fucked your father. He will not care.” 

Jesus Christ.

She leans forward and if she isn’t trying to flirt with him, she’s trying to look like she’s flirting with him. “I keep him off your back. You help with business.”

“Driving. Giving protection and shit.” 

“Maybe. But maybe also internet. Maybe with clothes.” 

“I ain't your fucking Queer Eye.” 

This reference doesn’t seem to register. “You are American. You know what looks good and what looks --” she gestures to her clothes again. “Maybe better convince other girls what is good idea.” 

This sounded more like a job for Mandy, but whatever. 

“I can’t be driving chicks all around Chicago all hours of the day and night,” Mickey protests, introducing the part of the plan he most saw causing trouble. “Look. I fucking promised my dad I’d take care of business. And there’s been a fuck-ton of it, lately.” 

“You don’t have brothers?” 

He did have brothers. Fuck. 

“Look. You help me plan,” Svetlana smiles in a way that doesn’t match her words. Still playing for an audience. “You help me set up. You find drivers. We give you cut.” 

Mickey stares at her, evaluating. She knows what he wants. And she knows what he’ll do for Ian. She probably thinks that makes him closer to a sure thing than a lot of other guys. Or maybe she just likes the fact that he’s gay and he’ll leave the girls alone. Either way, she seems fucking fixated on doing this with him. And she’s right about him. He wants Ian back so badly he doesn’t actually know how much longer he’ll be able to stand it. So maybe he should start making some fucking money. 

“How big a cut? How much does 30% add up to?” 

*** 

“Hey.” 

“Hey,” Mickey murmurs. It’s early the next morning and his house is quiet. “You ok? You sound out of breath.” 

“Just walking. It’s fine. What’s up?” 

“Nothing’s up. Just… had a minute. Thought I’d call.” 

“Ok. Ok, good.” 

Mickey sits up against his headboard, wrapped in his hoodie, trying to figure out how to approach the fact that he’s actually in what Ian would call fucking _private_ right now. Usually, Ian flirts with him with no provocation and once he does that it’s really fucking easy to turn the conversation to sex. But this is weird. He doesn’t know what the fuck this is. 

“You sound busy.” 

“No. Just… Like I said. I’m outside. Walking.” 

“Yeah. You did say that.” 

“So, um. Was there something you wanted to tell me?” 

“No. Just… Got a minute alone.” 

“Uh huh.” 

Mickey’s stomach churns. His chest tightens. He’s suddenly feeling fucking emotional and he can’t stand it. 

“You with that dog?” 

“Bo. Yeah.” 

“Having fun?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s ok.” Ian falls silent. Mickey can hear his breathing and a rustling noise that is probably just Ian moving through some kind of brush or something. “I’m probably running low on minutes.” 

And that hurts. “You want me to let you go?”

“No. Just thinking. I gotta get a card.” 

“Ok. But it _sounds_ like you think you should go, though.” 

“Maybe.” 

Mickey closes his eyes. It could be in his head. But it feels like deep rejection. And confusion. And he should fucking say something. He should just tell Ian he wants them to get off together. But his throat is squeezing like a vice and he can barely breathe.

“Ok,” he pushes out, finally. “Fucking go, then.” 

“Yeah,” Ian doesn’t seem even remotely concerned. “Oh, but hey. Mick.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Did you look up anything about roaches?” 

***

WEEK SIX

Mickey and Svetlana had left The Alibi together that night, Svetlana leading Mickey by the hand, and Terry had never been fucking happier. 

Which, yes, pissed Mickey off. 

But it was useful. 

Mickey’s not 100% ready to suggest he start this side-hustle, but he’s dropping hints and his father is watching him less like a hawk and more like a slightly distractible owl. Still intense, but there are breaks. 

Mickey tries not to think too much about his last conversation with Ian. He tries not to acknowledge that his feelings are hurt. That he feels a bit sore and sniffly about it. Like some bitch who isn’t getting enough attention at home. 

He’s not gonna be like that. He fucking isn’t. He’s called Ian a million times when Ian was alone and open to suggestions and Mickey was tense and smoking in a fucking parking lot. One time the shoe is on the foot and Ian doesn’t pick up on Mickey’s ALMOST ZERO hints… Yeah. He knows he’s being fucking ridiculous. He needs to chill. 

But it felt wrong. It felt _wrong_ , and it just sticks in the back of his brain all the time. 

But Jesus. Fuck it. 

Feeling bruised and easily injured, Mickey actually seeks out the opportunity to spend a little more time with Terry. There can be something grounding about it. When things are good. Sometimes, if they’re talking about a drop or a pickup or how to handle moving something, where he feels like they are on the same wavelength. Where it’s like they almost can reach each other’s minds. And sometimes his dad will grin and Mickey will think _yeah. He gets it._ And the thing is, he does. When Mickey has an idea, his father is always the first to catch on. Sometimes the idea will irritate him because he’s pissed he didn’t think of it. Sometimes it fucking delights him. Mickey never knows until it’s out of his mouth, which way that’s gonna go. 

But after The Alibi, it’s like he can’t lose. Every joke he makes, Terry laughs. Every action he suggests, Terry backs up. There’s lots of back-slapping and shoulder shaking and it’s all fatherly as fuck. 

Iggy is fucking pissed about it. 

And Mickey thinks of what Svetlana said he wonders if it’s this fucking easy. Just suggest -- just a little suggestion -- that he’s fucking girls, and Terry feels like the world is back on its axis. His son isn’t queer. He isn’t any AIDS monkey. 

But he’s still an Aaron Bond. And he knows his father isn’t going to forget that. 

That night, they come home late after driving, just the two of them, into Indiana and back. Wasn’t even a pickup or a drop. Just a fucking meeting. But Terry’s in a good mood and when Mickey tries to head to his room, his father redirects him to the kitchen and pulls a beer out of the fridge and shoves it at him. Announces he’s ordering a fucking pizza. 

So they end up sitting in the kitchen, shooting the shit, while Mickey downs a few Old Style and his father moves into the harder stuff. Mickey is just fishing up what will probably be his last piece of pizza when Terry sits back in his chair and folds his arms across his chest. 

“So. That Svetlana. She’s a looker.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, she is.” 

“You still saying it’s not worth paying for?” 

“Who says I’m paying her?” 

Terry chuckles. “You’re shitting me.” 

Mickey tips his head, giving a sly smile. Encouraging his dad to believe whatever the fuck he wants to. 

“You could do worse,” Terry murmurs, tipping back his Jack and Coke. “I mean. Hell. I guess you’ve done worse.” 

And then he laughs. And Mickey knows where this is going. He feels the chill march up his spine because he’s been dreading this for two months and now it’s fucking here. 

“What happened to that asshole, anyway? Your… What. Your fucking _soulmate._ ” 

“Dunno.” 

“Bullshit.” 

“He took off, Pops. I don’t know where he is.” 

And that, at least, is fucking true. Ian could be anywhere. Anywhere they have dogs and … brush. His brain has been telling him that Ian is in the country but he desperately wants it to shut up. 

“He sever that bond like you told me?” 

Mickey has dreaded this question. He’s looked into it. He knows it hasn’t _actually_ happened, but even if it had, he wouldn’t know. He’d only be able to tell if they were in a room together. 

“Don’t know. He doesn’t tell me shit.” 

“Yeah? And you haven’t had it done either, huh?” 

“When the fuck would I have done that? You’ve been running my ass all over the midwest. C’mon.” He opts for jovial. Like they’re buddies, giving each other a hard time.

“So why don’t you get it done?” Terry presses. “Take it out of that Gallagher kid’s hands.” 

“Do you have $5000 lying around? You want to pay for that shit?”

Terry slams down his glass and Mickey knows there’s no saving it. He stands up, taking his beer bottle with him as his dad calls after him. 

“And how the fuck am I supposed to believe he’ll do it?”

“He’s my soulmate.” Mickey shoots back. “I know him. He’d cut off his right hand if I asked him to. 

“Yeah? And what about you? What would you do for him, other than bend over?”

“This, asshole,” Mickey shoots back, throwing his arms open. “I’m doing THIS.”

Mickey is drunk enough that the punch doesn’t hurt that much. Hitting the floor does, but that’s because he drops the beer and he lands on his back, right on top of the fucking bottle. It takes the wind out of him. 

“Don’t FUCK with me, kid,” Terry is bellowing. “You hear me? I don’t wanna see that asshole around here again.”

Mickey rolls over onto his side, letting the spilled beer soak into his shirt. “Fucking won’t.” 

“Yeah? You better not be thinking you can pull one past me, Mickey. You might be smart, but you’re not smarter than me.” 

His father pushes his shoulder with his boot. Hard enough that Mickey rolls onto his back, but it's just a gesture. It’s the end of things, not the start of it. Terry tells him to “clean this shit up” and then he’s gone. 

Mickey doesn’t get up. He just lies in the beer and stares up at the ceiling that thinks… Well. That could have been worse. 

At least it’s happened now. If history is any indication, it’ll lie fallow for a bit. He just has to keep doing what he’s doing. And ok. At some point he might have to put on some kind of “the bond is gone” performance. When he had the energy and the will. 

Things aren’t exactly _tense_ the next day, but when Terry decides it’s time to do something, he tells Iggy to come with him and leaves Mickey alone. 

Alone. In the house. 

His first thought is to call Ian. His second thought is that this is a trap. And his third thought is that, even if it is a trap, he doesn’t want to call Ian and get brushed off again. 

Because that feels fucking awful. 

He’s gonna admit that to himself. Ian has never been indifferent to him. Fucking never. Not once. 

And then that fucking phone call. 

He can feel the anxiety stirring in him and it’s coming on fucking strong. That happens sometimes. He’ll be fine--days of fine--and then it’ll come up all at once. And it barely has a focus. He knows he’s overreacting to one kinda meh phone exchange, but it was like he was talking to another person and he cannot come up with a single reason why. Every time they’ve talked, it’s flooded him with relief that can last days. The one time it doesn’t go that way, he loses his shit. 

Mickey decides to get drunk. Again. Seems like the best plan of attack. 

He heads back to his room with the half-bottle of Jack his father was drinking the night before and flops down onto his bed. He stares up at the ceiling between pulls from the bottle and just lets himself feel shit. He’s hardly been able to spend any time in his room lately. Usually, by the time he gets home, he’s ready to fully crash anyway. Constantly on the road in these bullshit day trips to Indiana, Wisconsin, even fucking Iowa. Keeping his head down, getting shit done, and for fucking WHAT? So that Ian can blow him off for no god damn reason? So that he can replaced by a fucking DOG? 

As he gets drunker, he gets angrier. Brooding slides into raging which slides into mourning. Hating himself and his life and his fucking father. Why the fuck should he expect Ian to be excited to hear from him? Why would he be? What the fuck is Mickey doing for him? Chasing him out of Chicago and away from his family so that he’s out in WHO THE FUCK EVEN KNOWS, hanging out with a dog and, from the sounds of it, absolutely no one else. 

And fuck it. Mickey sits up. He has an idea. One perfect fucking rebellion. Mickey is going to redecorate his fucking room. 

It starts with all the nazi shit on the walls because he’s spending so much time looking at it and realizing he does not give a single solitary shit about any of it. It feels juvenile and fucking ridiculous. Shit he did when he was 14, and trying to get his dad to give a shit. To think he was worth something. By, you know, hating other people. By going through the motions of idolizing a whole fucking government that murdered people who weren’t like them. Murdered people who were like him. 

So he pulls it down, rage mounting, and everything else comes down with it. He fills garbage bags with shit he just doesn’t fucking want. And then he decides he doesn’t fucking want the dresser there anymore. He doesn’t want the furniture where it was, because every time he walks into the room and he looks at his bed there against the wall he remembers bonding and the pain of it is fucking physical. 

Eventually, after dark, and after a ton of fucking whiskey, Iggy comes in and asks him what he’s fucking doing. He ends up helping Mickey move the bed. 

The next day, Terry pauses in the doorway and asks Mickey what the fuck happened. 

“Dunno. Might have a girl over.” 

Terry grins. 

Mickey grins back. Because fuck him. He is getting shit together. He’s getting his room ready for Ian. 

***

In the end, the thing that brings everything crashing down is a box of bandaids. 

It’s early morning, sun still coming up, and Ian and Bo are out in the brush. He likes being up this early. Never really did this much before unless he was heading off to some ROTC retreat. There’s fog and dew and Ian is feeling maybe like he can reach out and touch good. Like it’s attainable if he just gets some of his energy out. 

Bo is delighted, bounding along beside him, pushing up against his legs sometimes, and excited to have his head scratched. 

He takes satisfaction in Bo’s consistent good mood. He gets why people have pets now. How they really can be companions. How it feels good to make them happy. How _easy_ it is to make them happy. How Bo will keep him company while he details the fridge from top to bottom, and listens to him talk rapidly about much fucking work he has to do on this place to get it livable. How he has put up with the grime and the roaches for too long. 

He’d be losing his fucking mind without Bo. He probably was well on his way when he showed up. Monica has been around a little less since she brought the dog around, too, so he’s really gotten dependent on having his furry partner in crime. 

Ian is thinking about this and also thinking about how he has to get things. He needs to up his minutes on his phone and he needs to get more of the sticky traps and he probably needs to get that gel he remembers Fiona having that you put on the hinges and under the counter lip. And he probably needs to get ziplocks or something to keep his food in and he needs to get cough medicine or something because his lungs still feel weird and he should probably call Mickey--no, can’t call Mickey--but when he talks to Mickey he can tell him to look up running because he needs to maybe do more of that and maybe he shouldn’t be waiting for any of this because he does have a little money and he could probably get to town easily enough and maybe he can’t take Bo with him, but he could probably catch a ride because people are probably trusting out here because there’s less crime and he’s reasonably clean cut and knows old guys like it when he calls them “sir” and actually most people generally like him, except for Tim, who is an actual fucking criminal and also just the worst in every single way imaginable, he has no idea how Monica stands him. 

It’s at this point that Ian’s foot catches--and on NOTHING, on fucking weeds--and he flies forward so fast he barely manages to catch himself. 

Bo is on him immediately, thinking this is a moment to wrestle and even though he feels a sharp pain in his elbow, Ian laughs and pulls the dog towards him. 

“Good boy,” he encourages. “So fucking good, aren’t you? Aren’t you?” 

Bo agrees that he absolutely is. 

When Ian finally sits up, he can tell he’s cut himself. Hit some random stick and he can feel the sting under his sweatshirt. He gingerly pulls up the sleeve and finds he’s bleeding pretty good. 

Awesome. 

He gently pushes Bo back so he can get on his feet and he and the dog trudge back to their abode. They both bound up the steps and Ian makes a beeline to the bathroom, tearing off his shirts as he goes. 

The cut is actually tiny, once he’s cleaned it up, but it’s in an annoying place and it must have clipped a capillary or something because the blood is disproportionate. And for those reasons, he opens the creaky tin medicine cabinet with the cloudy mirror and goes looking for a bandage. 

There is a box. He’s seen it before. Basic bandaids and he picks it up without giving it much thought. Opens the cardboard box with his thumb and FUCK. 

Roaches. Pouring. More FUCKING roaches. He drops the box in the sink and four, five, six… just so many fucking bugs swarm out of the box. 

The medicine cabinet. He’s cleaned out every fucking space in this whole goddamn apartment, but he didn’t think of the medicine cabinet. Never put a roach motel in there, never cleaned it, never even fucking THOUGHT about putting some Borax down. They’re BANDAIDS. The FUCK do roaches want with BANDAIDS. 

There’s some rage. At the end of it, somehow the medicine cabinet is still in one piece. 

Ian feels himself calm. Focus. He gets into the shower because the hot water and the decent pressure helps him feel better. He’s feeling tight and panicked in his chest, just knowing this is going to stick with him like the outlet stuck with him, and also just fucking SICK of this. 

He wants to go home. 

He can’t go home. 

But he wants to go home. He wants to go back to Chicago and back to his siblings and his house and even fucking Frank. He wants to go back to his bed because he can sleep there, and he wants to see Mickey again and he doesn’t even fucking care about Terry anymore. Why is Mickey so sure Terry can hurt him, anyway? Ian’s great at self-defence. Mickey doesn’t even know. Because when they fight, Ian is never trying to win or fucking hurt him. He misses that. He misses running around with Mickey, and pushing each other into walls or rolling around in the grass when they’re alone and it’s dark and no one can speculate about teenaged boys wrestling. 

He needs to call Mickey. 

No, he needs minutes. 

And he needs a nuclear bomb to kill these fucking roaches. 

He’s decided by the time he gets out of the shower. He can’t stay here. But he has to win this war he’s waged first. Then he can figure something out. Somewhere for him and Bo. And Monica, if she’ll come because she shouldn’t stay in this shit heap either. Ian dresses with the expectation of seeing people for the first time in a month. Pulls on dark-wash jeans and a sweater. Brushes his teeth and combs his hair. He doesn’t have a leash for Bo, but he’s got a length of shitty plastic rope that he used to use to take Bo running on the road before he figured out Bo didn’t need it. 

It’s not even eight o’clock when they start off down the drive. Ian turns right and heads towards the crossroad. He notes the number on the mailbox. It feels like a tiny detail, but he tries to encourage himself not to get lost. To remember how to get back here. For his mother, if nothing else. 

It’s almost funny how easy getting into town is, as soon as he tries it. An old guy in a pick-up stops almost immediately as soon as he gets to the next road. He lets Ian and Bo ride in the back. Drops them off at a giant Wal-Mart that’s not even as far as the town. He should have done this ages ago. Ages. 

He has to leave Bo outside the giant box store, tied to a metal bench, but he gives him lots of affection and reassurance that he’ll be back and then he goes inside. 

A fucking _store._

It’s like he’s been asleep for a decade. It’s not like they have a lot of Wal-Marts where he lives, either, so the size, the lights, the big aisles… it’s all kinda amazing. 

And shit. There is so much stuff. 

He gets a little lost in it. Walking around, looking at the shelves, letting himself be interested. Letting himself see things and explore. He finds a pet aisle and he gets tennis balls and Milk Bones. He finds the hardware section and picks up the gel and more of the fucking motels. He finds the T-Mobile cards up by the register. He wants to get a million more things--but he remembers that he has to walk back--or at least walk some of the way--and in the end, he can fit everything into one bag. On the way out, he sees there’s a McDonalds inside the fucking Walmart, so he stops and buys an Egg McMuffin for himself and a Sausage McMuffin for Bo. 

And ok. Maybe now he’s happy. Something close to it. He’s grinning as he heads to the exit. Says goodbye to the person standing there, collecting carts. He pauses inside the vestibule to pull out his sandwich in front of a large bulletin board advertising used cars sold by owner, garage sales and… 

And. 

There’s a sign. Just down in the corner and a little obscured, but his eyes go right to it. A picture of a boy, in a soccer uniform, hugging a dog. A dog that looks exactly like Bo. 

Fuck. 

***

There are a lot of feelings. A lot of them. 

He sits on the bench and he feeds Bo the sausage and ends up giving him most of his sandwich, too, because he’s not hungry anymore. He’s pulled the little tag with the family number off the poster and he’s fiddling with it. 

He should have fucking known. 

He should have known Monica wouldn’t go to the pound. Wouldn’t have been that fucking organized about anything. 

She probably didn’t _steal_ someone’s dog. Probably. 

But fuck. 

He sits on the bench and he pets Bo and he works through the five stages of grief. At some point, he realizes he’s actually fucking crying. And Bo is looking up at him with worry, because Bo is kinda the best thing in his life right now and Bo loves him, and maybe that makes it ok that he’s with Ian now. 

But it doesn’t. Because there’s a kid in a soccer uniform and Ian can’t do that. 

He loves Bo. He loves this dog with fucking intensity and it took no time for that to happen. But he knows what he has to do. He can’t un-know it. It’s done. 

He still takes his fucking time. A good, long fucking time, alone with his dog--their dog--in a massive sprawl of box stores. He walks with Bo from the Wal-Mart all the way down to the Target. He finds a little space with grass and a single tree and two picnic tables to the side of a giant grocery store. He plays with him a little. Throws the ball for him, and Bo DOES love it. Mickey was right about tennis balls. He sits with him under the tree, with Bo’s head in his lap, and after a while, he just picks up the phone and adds the new minutes. 

And then he calls. 

A woman answers and he tells her he thinks he might have her dog. She cries. Then she babbles at him, asks a million questions and he can barely engage the conversation. They finally work out that her kids are still in school and that she doesn’t want to get their hopes up, because there’s not a LOT of “doodles” out there, but there are some and maybe it’s another one. And yes, they DID check with the ASPCA, but maybe “Wiggles” got further out than they thought. Eventually, Ian and this lady come to an agreement. 

Ian will hang out in this fucking big box store wasteland until her husband is off work and he’ll come and see if Bo is their dog. 

Ian gives her his phone number. And he waits. 

Around five, when it’s starting to get down to the wire, Ian cracks and calls Mickey. The phone rings. It feels like fucking forever. Finally, the voice mail picks up, which is just Mickey’s voice saying his last name and nothing else. 

He can’t speak so he doesn’t leave a message. 

And now Mickey is going to be fucking pissed at him. If he was going to CALL he should have used the burner. But he’s always been bad at that. When something happens like this--specifically when his mother guts him--he runs to Mickey. But he can’t fucking do that now. 

His phone rings at 5:15 and he talks to a breathless man who agrees to come meet him at the Walmart. He arrives 20 minutes later, still in his suit from work and driving a well-cared-for SUV. The second Bo sees him, he loses his mind. 

Ian realizes he had a little bit of hope when he feels it die. He pushes his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and looks hard at the horizon. 

It’s an epic reunion. Ian stays quiet and doesn’t look right at them until the man, teary and grinning, stands up. “You can’t,” he starts. “I can’t even tell you. We’ve looked everywhere. Where did you find him?” 

Ian has to clear his throat, hard. “Um. I live way out, you know? I don’t know how he got out there.” 

“He’s chipped,” the man blurts, then looks regretful immediately. “That’s why we thought he might just be gone.” 

Ian doesn’t really know what he’s talking about, so he just nods.

“You know, you can take a dog to any vet and they can check the chip. Just in case you ever find yourself--” 

“First time I’ve been able to get into town,” Ian cuts him off. “I saw the sign and…” He shrugs. 

“Well, I really can’t thank you enough. My kids are going to be over the moon. He’s been gone for WEEKS. We thought for sure…” His voice cracks and Ian looks around desperately for something to say. 

“Here!” He fishes the box of dog treats and the three-pack of tennis balls out of his bag. “I got these for him, but… You should. You take them.” 

“Oh, _Milk_ Bones…” 

He says it in a way that lets Ian know that Milk Bones are shit. Well. Bo fucking liked them. So.

There’s a little more gushing laced with a bit of _“why the fuck didn’t you do something to find us sooner”_ that Ian ignores. Eventually the man, clearly looking for an exit, fumbles “I could… Can we walk you to your car?” 

Ian smirks. “I don’t have a car.” 

“Oh!” And it’s like the pieces come together for the dude. Like _‘Oh…. you’re poor! THAT’S why this took so long!’_ “Well. Can I give you a ride?” 

“It’s cool.” 

“No, it’s getting dark. It’s the least I can do. Please.” 

And it’s not the man devolving in front of him, struggling to say thank you while also kinda thinking Ian stole his dog. It’s Bo. Who looks at him with those big pleading eyes. Ian gives in. 

“Yeah, ok. Sure.” 

He gets into the back with Bo, which throws the guy off a bit, but it discourages conversation and Ian thinks he should be grateful for that. Bo puts his head in Ian’s lap and Ian gently strokes his head and tries to think about what is going to happen next. 

And it’s just a jumble of loose threads and missed connections. He doesn’t actually know what can possibly happen next. 

He finds he can direct the guy back to Tim’s place pretty easily. It’s a lot of distance, but it’s also pretty much a straight shot. And in no time, the SUV is turning down the driveway and Ian distantly thinks that Tim? Will hate this. 

***

Mickey’s out with his father when he feels his phone buzz in his pocket. And his dad is in the middle of a tirade that has nothing to do with Mickey, so he ignores it. Because he’s not gonna set off another bomb in the middle of his relationship with his dad. But it distracts him. He’s positive it’s bad news. He’s been on edge for almost four days and it doesn’t take much to get his stomach-churning right now, but still. There’s no surprise when he finally has a chance to look at the display and sees that it’s Ian. 

Ian. Who isn’t supposed to call him, ever. Who has an emergency burner phone. Who was weird as fuck the last time they talked. 

And Mickey is stuck with his dad for at least two more hours. 

He starts to sweat. 

***

When Ian climbs out of the SUV, Bo bounds after him. Ian turns back to encourage him back into the car and now the guy is out of the car, too, with the engine still on and the headlights shining on shitty Tim’s grandmother's house. The Guy Who Named His Dog Wiggles is talking at Ian, thanking him again and saying he can give them a moment to say goodbye, but Ian really just wants this to be fucking over. 

“Can I give you some money? A reward?” 

“I’m good. I’m just glad you got him back.” 

“I really can’t say enough--I would feel so much better if I could give you something.” 

Ian wants to point out that there isn’t anything this guy can give him that’s gonna help. The situation sucks. Neither of them created it. Bo must be from a happy home because there isn’t a single suspicious or untrusting bone in his gangly body. Ian shakes his head again and kneels down so that he can tip Bo’s head and his big, expressive eyes up to his. 

“Bye, Wiggles,” he murmurs. “Thanks for keeping me company, but it’s time to go home.” 

Bo licks his face and Ian really wants to just burn something down. He ruffles his mop of hair. Something that he’s gotten so used to. Tries not to think about the fact that this is going to be the last time. 

“Be good, ok?” Ian forces himself to stand up and gently pushes Bo towards the car, encouraging him to bound back in. And Bo does. Because he’s the fucking best. 

“I really want to pay you for taking care of him, though.” 

Ian really wants this guy to pay him by fucking off, but he forces a smile. “Like I said, it’s cool.” 

“No,” and he is shoving a roll of bills at him and Ian decides there’s no fucking point in fighting it. So he takes it without looking and shoves it in his pocket. Right as he hears the side door open. He glances up to see a stony-faced Tim staring them down. Dog Guy, proud owner of a 2010 Rav 4, looks unnerved. 

“You better get Wiggles home to his family,” Ian cannot believe how much cheer he’s forced into his voice. The guy is relieved and readily takes the excuse, shaking Ian’s hand and thanking him one more time before rounding the car, leaping into the driver’s side and getting the fuck away from this place, which Ian imagines is giving off some serious horror movie vibes. As soon as the lights turn from the house and the car is set on the road, Tim moves away from the back door and advances on Ian.

“What the fuck was that?” 

“Ian!” Monica has appeared and she’s already got that energy Ian knows too well. Monica, looking to appease. 

“He’s Bo’s owner. He gave me a ride home.” 

“Who the fuck is BO?” 

“The dog, honey,” Monica is trying to push past Tim to get to Ian, but Tim turns on her, pushing her back.

“Hey,” Ian starts forward, as Tim pushes Monica’s shoulder again. 

WHY IS IT SO FUCKING HARD for you to keep him out of my way? 

“When have I ever been in your way?” 

“Ian, please,” Monica’s eyes are pleading with him over Tim’s shoulder. “It’s ok, baby. Just go upstairs.” 

Tim is un-fucking-deterred. “I said he could come here, ok? I said you could put him up, but he had to stay the fuck out of the WAY. He’s always fucking around. He’s always causing trouble.” 

“Hey. If you have a problem --” 

“He’s in MY house!” 

“I’m in you’re fucking garage!” 

“SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH.” Tim turns on him entirely, then, which actually suits Ian just fine. He’s taller than Tim. He’s lost a little muscle, but he knows he can take this guy. Ian can take most guys, to be perfectly fucking frank. 

“Or what,” he taunts. And it feels good. It feels like coming home. He’s Ian Gallagher from Southside, Chicago. Who the fuck is this guy?” 

“Fucking BRAT. Can’t follow simple fucking instructions.” 

“You never GAVE me any god damn instructions, Tim.” 

“You stay out of the GOD DAMN WAY,” Tim shouts right in Ian’s face. “You don’t attract attention and you don’t BRING PEOPLE ONTO MY LAND.” 

“WHY NOT?” Ian shouts back. “What the fuck do you think you got going on here that’s so fucking interesting? You’re just a grown man, living in his grandmother’s house, doing fuck all with his life. Half your pot plants are male, you know that? WHO the FUCK grows pot without weeding out the males?” 

That had been bugging him for fucking WEEKS. 

“You stay the fuck away from my weed!” 

“Yeah, no problem. I will stay away from your useless fucking 12 pot plants, dude. Don’t worry about it.” 

“Tim,” Monica is pulling at his shirt sleeve. “Come on. Let’s go inside. Ian’s had a bad day, and--” 

Tim jabs his elbow back, clipping Monica in the mouth and that is all Ian needs. He launches himself at Tim and tackles him down to the ground. And he was right. Tim is no fucking match. Ian pins him easily, pulls back a fist and gets a good solid hit to his jaw. Monica starts screaming and pulling at him, but he throws a few more punches before he lets himself get pulled off, panting. 

Tim’s nose is bleeding profusely. Ian does not fucking care. 

“You get the fuck out,” he spits, wetly, as he rolls onto his knees. 

“Fuck you,” Ian shoots back. “You keep your fucking hands off of my mother.” 

“BOTH of you,” Tim’s stumbling up to his feet. “She’s a fucking menace. You can both get your shit and get the FUCK off my property.” 

“Your property,” Monica has darted between them and Ian is slightly surprised to find out she’s picked his side of this equation. The homeless gay teenager side. “You’re a fucking squatter! You’re just waiting until your family gets the power of attorney and gets to kick you out of here!” 

“Fuck you,” Tim turns unsteadily into the house. “FUCK all of you!” 

“Fucking insignificant asshole,” Monica howls after him. “My son is RIGHT. You’re NOTHING. You’re not half the man he is!” She takes a few steps forward. “And you’re sure as shit not anything close to what your brother is!” 

Ian blinks. 

Well. Yeah. He figured this was complicated. 

Tim comes storming out of the house, and it looks like he’s about to go straight for Monica’s throat when Ian just straightens up. That’s enough to put some fear into him. 

“You’re both fucking crazy,” Tim shouts, pushing past them and stomping up to the garage. “I want you both out of here by the time I come back, or I’m calling the fucking cops.” 

“Thought you didn’t want anyone out here,” Ian calls after him. Tim doesn’t turn around and doesn’t acknowledge him. Ian feels entirely untroubled. Just entirely. 

His mother’s arms come to wrap around him from behind, her hands clasping against his chest, and her head pressed into his back. 

“You didn’t get Bo at the pound, did you?” 

Monica sniffs. “I found him. He was all alone and he didn’t have a collar and I thought he’d come and found us.” 

Ian doesn’t _hate_ that idea. 

He hears Tim’s motorcycle roar to life and gently guides Monica back, closer to the house and well out of the way as Tim tears down the driveway. He turns too tight at the end of the drive and nearly skids out, then rights himself and takes off down the country highway. 

Monica is the first to burst out laughing, and Ian immediately joins her because somehow this is just incredibly funny to him. SIX WEEKS of that guy. Six weeks of casting his eyes down if he spotted him in the yard and just doing whatever the fuck he could to be invisible to him just for no fucking REASON. And he never ASKED. He was never moved to say “hey, what the fuck is his problem?” because…. What? It would be rude? 

“How the fuck,” he finally manages to gasp, “did you end up with that guy?” 

Monica mops at her eyes with her sleeves. “Oh, God. I don’t know. He was fun! Ok, I take that back. He was never fun. But I used to hang out with his half brother, and then his cousin, and well…” She shrugs. “I go where I’m wanted, baby. And he wanted me for a while.” 

Ian snorts, still finding this stupidly funny. “I fuck that up for you?” 

“No,” Monica smiles and wraps her arms around his waist. “I was happy when you called and I just wanted you here and I figured… We’d figure it out.” She squeezed him tighter. “And we will! We’ll figure it out. But right now, we better pack.” 

Fuck yes. 

*** 

The second the bathroom door closes behind him, Mickey fishes his phone out of his pocket, flips it open and calls Ian. He is jittery as the phone struggles to connect, but finally, it starts to ring.

It rings. And rings. It feels like it goes on forever. And Mickey realizes there’s something worse than calling Ian and having him just not care. 

It’s having him just not answer. 

***

That feeling of having no plans, of sitting in the back of that SUV with Bo and just having no idea what was coming, occurs to Ian again. And this time it doesn’t matter. He isn't helpless. He isn’t lost. And he isn't stranded in the middle of Wisconsin anymore. 

Ian grins as he vaults up the stairs to the apartment. He moves through the space like lightning. Never unpacked that much to begin with, so he just has to shove dirty clothes back into his duffle bag and grab his toothbrush, soap and 2-in-1 shampoo from the shower. And fuck it, he decides. He grabs the threadbare towel off the back of the door, too. Picks up the Dave Barry book he never got back to, and shoves it all in his duffle. 

Spinning around, he realizes he left the bag with all the roach stuff in the back of that asshole’s car. 

Fuck. 

The roaches are gonna win. 

Coming down the stairs, Monica is already standing outside with two garbage bags, lapping him on getting the fuck out. Years of practice, he guesses. “I can’t find they keys to the fucking cars!” she complains. “Do you have money for a cab?” 

“Fuck cabs,” Ian drops his duffle and heads for the only car that has any hope in hell of getting them somewhere--the Honda. He checks the door, which is fucking locked in the middle of nowhere and is contemplating whether he can get in with a coat hanger when something occurs to him. He drops down to a crouch and peers under the car, feeling around the wheel well. He finds what he’s looking for on the back wheel on the driver’s side. “Fucking amateur,” he mutters, getting to his feet. He holds the hide-a-key up for his mother’s approval. “For the record, I could hotwire this.” 

Monica squeals and claps her hands like Ian has just taken first place at a track meet. He opens the door and ducks into the driver’s seat. Automatic. Lights work. He finds the button to pop the trunk, then hops out to help Monica gather her shit. Ian lifts up his bag and stops to take one last look around. 

“Kinda hate giving him what he wants.” 

“Oh,” Monica sighs. “He’ll be pissed about the car. That’ll be enough.” 

Ian knows full well they’ll end up dumping the car at some point and he’ll get it back. It doesn’t feel right. He stares back at the fucking garage. Tim left it open, lights on. Sad, masculine pot plants blowing in the breeze… And then Ian sees something. 

“We could…” He stops. 

Monica follows his eyes and lets out a startled “Oh!” when she realizes Ian is eying a gas can set on the workbench. 

“You think there’s anything in that?” 

Monica beams. “Don’t.” 

“Don’t?” 

The smile widens and widens. “Definitely don’t.” 

“Ok,” Ian says, tossing his bag into the back of the Honda. “I won’t.” 

When they head down the driveway 15 minutes later, Monica has already found a station she likes. It’s playing The Black Crows and she is singing at the top of her lungs, _“Twi-i-ice as hard, as it was the first time, I said goodbye!”_

Ian grins at her. She looks absolutely joyous, and his heart is pounding and they are LEAVING. Together. She’s found the perfect song, which is her superpower, and looks fucking magical, backlit by the flames that are rising behind them. Monica lets out a howl and then turns to Ian. “Head south!” She encourages. “Left! Left!” 

Ian flips on the blinker. “Fucking south. Ok.” 

“South!” Monica sings. “You drive and I’ll call 911.” 

Why not. Ian doesn’t care if the fire goes out. 

He just cares that the roaches are gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **More specific content warning:** There are a lot of bugs in this chapter. And Ian’s bipolar is starting to manifest. Also. Homophobic language and a little bit of cannon-typical violence. 
> 
> I put something on Tumblr to this effect, but I am not an American and every time I do not say “a litre of milk” is a triumph that maybe only other non-Americans who write fanfic about US shows will understand. 
> 
> I don’t want to completely embarrass myself with Google translate, so to clarify, the one word Svetlana says to Mickey is in Ukrainian. She’s trying to make a connection, so she’s referencing his background, not hers. It’s meant to translate to “beloved”, but you know how those things go. In this reality, it’s meant to be a particularly emotive term Ukrainians would use for soulmate. 
> 
> I am exploring my own decade-old roach PTSD in this chapter. Both the thing with the socket and the bandaids happened to me in life. Roaches like to be near water and they like to feel “pressed’ on both sides, so you actually end up with roaches in anything that has “leaves”. They like to be in boxes with packets of stuff. I have never gone back to keeping bandaids in boxes. Ziplocks for life. (PSA: I got absolutely infested with roaches because my across-the-hall neighbours, who were sweet people, were so embarrassed to have roaches they didn’t tell the building. Our whole floor got overrun. Also, the gel and boric acid is what finally worked. Thumbs down on all other solutions. And really bad roach infestations are terrible for your lungs.) 
> 
> I lifted Frank and Monica’s skunk-filled camping adventure from my parents’ lives. I think it happened in Arizona or New Mexico. It really is like something out of Shameless. I did not even scratch the surface. 
> 
> Bo is a golden doodle, but is named for an infamous Canadian TV show from the 70s that I’ve never seen: The Littlest Hobo. It was about a german shepherd who went around helping people, and then moved on. Sorta like the Lone Ranger. 
> 
> I also need to stop naming chapters after what happens at the very end. 
> 
> **Next: Chapter Eight: New People** Ian gets a job.


	9. Other People

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s four months later. Ian is meeting a lot of new people, having a lot of new experiences, and exploring a lot of new coping strategies. He's also taking a lot of risks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next two chapters are going to cover the same period. This chapter is Ian’s. The next chapter will be Mickey’s. 
> 
> Ian’s chapter is going to be a little non-linear. There’s a breakdown in the endnotes, in case I have failed to make it coherent. 😰
> 
> Oh! We are in season four now. 
> 
> **Content Warning:** Grooming. Put another way -- Ned is in this chapter.

**Evelyn**

Ian wakes up coughing. 

Fucking annoying. He rolls onto his back and works one arm out of his sleeping bag. Reaches for a bottle of water and sits to take a few sips. The cough is persistent, though. Has been lately. He fumbles for a bottle of cough syrup and takes a quick swig, then reaches for his phone. It still has a charge, so he settles back into his bed and checks his alerts. He has six text messages, zero missed calls, several hundred unread emails and it’s only 2:45 PM. 

Could be worse. 

The top message is from someone who isn’t in his contacts. 

_“Hey Ian! It’s Russ. Great talking to you at Simon’s. Was hoping you’d like to grab a coffee sometime. Late afternoons and weekends work for me.”_

Who the fuck is Russ? 

Who the fuck is Simon? His brain conjures something vague in response to that name. Glasses. Though maybe he’s thinking of the chipmunk. 

There are two messages from Jack. One asking him where he is and the second asking him to cover a shift.

There’s a message from Fiona, sent the night before around 7:30. Just “He lives!” responding to a quick “Happy Birthday” text. He sends back a straight-up smiley face emoji in response and hopes that ends the conversation. 

Ryan’s message is short and sweet: _“Wet night. Hope you’re dry.”_

And then, at 4 AM, one word from Mickey. _“Hey.”_

He sends back his own _“Hey”_ and watches for a full minute to see if the dots appear. 

By the time Ian gives up the vigil, it’s 2:50 and he should probably get up. It’s unseasonably warm for February, but that means it’s also damp as fuck. Snow is melting and dripping from small cracks in the ceiling. It’ll freeze again and then everything will ice over. One of the reasons he didn’t look for another place to crash last night is that he’s trying to play those cards with some kind of care. Save them for the nights when it’s truly fucking frigid. 

Ian sits up and presses the palms of his hands into his eyes. He’s feeling a little wrecked, but it’s not epic. Just a little sore and a little tired. What else is new? He stretches a little, then scoots down the thin foam pad he sleeps on so that he can reach his knapsack. Pulling it into his lap, he starts to rummage around for his essentials. 

Breakfast this morning a few spoonfuls of peanut butter. He figured out pretty fast that there was a very small list of foods he could keep here. Peanut butter is king -- filling, full of fat and protein, shelf-stable, and you can eat it with a spoon if you have to. But mostly: it’s in a jar you can keep tightly sealed so nothing gets into it. He fishes around for the Ziploc he keeps with his mini CVS. This morning he takes an Advil and a Tylenol, a trick Jack taught him a few months ago. He’s not hungover; he didn’t drink much last night. But like a lot of mornings, he’s just kinda… 

Existing. 

Existing is fine. He’s just gotta make sure it doesn’t turn into anything else. 

He can hear Evelyn singing to herself. Which she does all the time. And good thing, too, because otherwise, he’d never know where she was and that shit can get to him sometimes. 

He doesn’t really _know_ Evelyn. She’s got a long history with Monica, but it’s pretty fucking fraught. A few times Ian would come home around three, four in the morning and they’d be fighting about some bullshit that happened in 1993. People who’ve done a lot of drugs together have a lot to fight about. 

Whatever her issues with his mother, Evelyn doesn’t seem to hold them against Ian. He tries to do little things to stay in her good graces, though. He’s not reliably around, and he supposes he has as much right to be here as she does, but he acknowledges her prior claim by picking her up the occasional six-pack, or a bag of Funyuns. She’s always touched and she always says something like “How the fuck you came from Frank and Monica, I can’t even guess.” 

He should probably be offended, but he’s met his parents, so he just shrugs and smiles. 

Evelyn doesn’t seem to care that he vanishes for days (or weeks) at a time and she never seems to care when he comes back. She leaves his shit alone when he’s gone. And they have electricity and he’s pretty sure that’s because of her. So all in all, pretty good roommate. 

They don’t talk much, but when Evelyn wanders into the room singing a little John Denver under her breath, she tosses him a smile while she walks over to her side of the room. “How ya doin’, kid?” 

He’s not 100% sure she knows his name. 

“Surviving,” he takes another long swig of his water. “How’s it going with you?” 

“Fucking awesome. What could be better?” 

He does _like_ Evelyn. Mostly because she says shit like that. “Hey,” he calls out. “What day is it?” 

“You’re living in the funhouse,” she chuckles. “How the fuck would I know?” 

Fair. He picks up his phone to check. Tuesday. Well, shit. 

Sundays can be slower than usual at the club, but they’re ok. Lots of people, just a quieter vibe. Tuesdays are dead. And sometimes they’re weird fucking theme nights. He hates being scheduled for the first half of the week. It means he’ll be off on one of the better nights later in the week. 

He also doesn’t like having days off, especially not since things went to shit with Ned. It’s hard to find a place to be. He could always call Joey, he supposes. Or he could have coffee with _Russ_. 

He wonders how that would go. _“Hey, Russ. I’m Ian. I was probably on some hardcore drugs when I met you so I was way more obnoxious than usual, or way more interesting, but either way this is gonna be a letdown. Plus, I’m bonded. It’s not going great and I’m super fucked up about it, but I will let you pay me $50 to suck your dick most nights, so…”_

“Hey!” Evelyn is hollering from across the room. “You heard from your mother?” 

“Nope!” Ian drops the phone, pushing all thoughts of Russ from his head. 

“She owes me $50 bucks,” Evelyn grouses. 

“Yeah. Sounds like her.” 

Monica owes him money, too. Arguably, Monica owes him a lot of things. 

About 20 minutes later, Ian has reorganized his backpack, trading out dirty clothes for clean and packing his water and protein bars. He checks his phone again -- no new messages -- and tucks it into his back pocket. He’s got about four hours before work. 

“Ok,” he calls. “I’m heading out.” 

“Have fun, sweetie!” 

Yeah. She definitely doesn’t know his name. 

**Jack**

_“Knock knock.”_

Of course, the text message that comes in is from Jack, pointing out that Ian is ignoring him in his regular charming fashion. Ian glances at the text quickly, as he pays for his cheap coffee. He just can’t face the fucking conversation. He likes Jack. He probably likes Jack the best, of all the other dancers at the club. But he doesn’t want to talk about covering shifts. 

He feels heavy today. He’s fallen into some fucked up habits lately, and he wonders if that’s why. Ian’s been drinking casually since he was 12 or 13. Smoking pot for almost as long as he’s been smoking tobacco. Always kinda following Lip’s lead -- but a little bit more careful about it. Ian’s not an anxious person, but he doesn’t ignore the facts. Addiction is at least a little bit about DNA. And that he’s got it coming at him from both directions. 

Mostly, that just means he’s never been too big on drinking or getting high alone, and he has a “stop” button. But since things got hard with Mickey, he knows he’s gotten bad about all that shit. He drinks to take the edge off in a way he never used to. And he’s doing harder drugs. At one point he thinks he was doing it for fun, but now it’s fully just how he gets through shifts, always trying to manage some up or down, or dull the ache inside of him. The comedown can be a fucking bitch, though, so he’s been trying to cut down. He avoided it last night. Still feels like shit this morning. 

Or. Ok. This mid-afternoon. 

He gets his coffee iced so that he can down it fast. Doing what he can to shoot the caffeine right into his veins. Like it can touch what’s wrong with him. Like simple coffee can impact Bond Separation Malaise. 

He is pretty sure he has that. Hasn’t, like, been to a doctor. But he feels so shitty and it’s so unrelenting, this seems as likely a candidate as anything. 

Ian tries to shake that thought off as he pushes through the doors to the Lake View YMCA. His Y membership is an essential part of his post-Ned survival plan. It is the one place in his life where his real age is an asset. For $25 a month he had a place to work out, shower and just generally BE when he isn’t at the club. They have heat. Fuck, they had saunas. No one ever bothers him here. Though a lot of guys from work -- and some guys he knows from the club -- work out here. It makes him feel a little connected to the world, as much as this feels so far from Southside, it’s like he’s in an entirely different city. 

But he isn’t. Mickey would lose his fucking mind if he ever caught wind of this. 

In the change room, Ian strips down to his boxers. He should head into the gym. He fucking should. But the coffee hasn’t helped him move into his body and he just wants to go straight to the shower. He glances over to one of the dozens of mirrors that offer him a view of himself. 

He looks… ok. 

Like, his definition is ok. But he’s losing weight. And maybe that’s a bit ok, too. He just has to watch it. 

Ian’s always cared about his body. He used to care mostly about what it could do. Now, however, he has other considerations. Looking good at work is essential. He knows he’s a type that works for the scene, with all the shit people wanted to see: biceps, pecs, six-pack abs. He’s given more than one lapdance to guys who compliment his body and then speculate that Ian could really throw a guy around… but just as often got told the opposite. Right now, he is a physical Rorschach test. And he is cautious about tipping over too much from one side to the other. His body and how he looks is the one thing he has going for him right now. It’s everything that is keeping him afloat. And the idea of losing whatever it is that pulls men towards him freaks him out. 

His phone vibrates in his pocket and Ian’s heart leaps immediately into his throat. Fucking finally. Finally. 

He glances down, and his heart lands in his stomach with a thud. 

_“Ok, stud. You working out today or what?”_

Why _the fuck_ doesn’t Mickey answer? 

And why the fuck does this still upset him so much? He’s got fucking _tears_ in his eyes. Ian wipes at them, impatiently. He’s gotta stop this. He’s got to stop letting Mickey’s flighty bullshit run his life like this. He has to keep what little remains of his shit together. 

But fuck Mickey. Seriously. Fuck him and his unreturned god damn text messages. Fuck Mickey blowing him off when Ian has upended his whole god damn life to keep him happy. Because right now, the way he’s been feeling? He’d take his chances with Terry. If it was entirely up to him. 

“EEEE-YAN!” 

Ian pulls himself out of his emotional downward spiral and glances up to see a familiar figure striding across the change room. Jack is grinning, peeling his parka from his body and tossing it on a bench as he bears down on Ian. “Fucking knew I’d find you here! You can’t hide from me, bitch!” 

“Hey, Jack,” Ian’s voice sounds flat -- even bored -- and he clears his throat like disinterest is something he can cough up. “How’s it going?” 

“Not bad, not bad,” Jack nods like he’s confirming his own words. “What’s up with you? Another gruelling leg day?”

Ian is not that organized. It’s always _“what can I stand to do?”_ day. Is it _run until I feel better_ day? Is it _get misty about Carl while doing crunches_ day? Is it lift free weights in a zombie state day? Who can tell? 

“I dunno, man. I guess I’ll surprise myself.” 

Jack slides up on Ian with his usual disregard for personal space. Jack has every conversation like he’s on a crowded L train. “You get my texts?” 

“Uh, yeah,” Ian exhales and turns his attention back to the backpack, like it’s suddenly really important to get all his shit straightened out. “Remind me?” 

“Saturday. Can you cover me?” 

“Already working Saturday.” 

“Yeah, but they said it was ok if you pulled a double and just worked to close.” 

Fuck. _Fuck._ Ian knows he’s the go-to guy when someone needs a shift covered. Mostly because Ian has fuck all going on. He sighs. 

“Please, Ian.” 

Ian smirks at the naked begging and steps into a pair of grey sweats. “Please?” 

“ _Please._ It’s my Abuela’s birthday. My family already fucking hates me.” 

He cuts his eyes over to Jack who is prepared to go to the mat for this one, because he’s already amped it up, with wide eyes and a full-on pout. Fucking hell. It’s like trying to negotiate with Liam. 

“Fine,” Ian sighs. He’s not trying to be a dick, but he legit doesn’t know if he’s going to be able to make it through a double. Being entertaining from 8 to 4 is pretty exhausting. “But can they let me go early if it’s slow? I’m fucking tired, dude.” 

“Ah! Ian,” Jack is hugging him now, from behind, arms wrapped around his torso. “You’re the fucking BEST. I’ll tell Albert. It’ll be cool. It’ll be cool. And hey, I owe you one.” 

Half the staff owes Ian one. He can’t imagine when he is ever going to collect. Ian glances at the clock. Jack, who is resting his chin on Ian’s shoulder, notices the move. 

“You work out yet?” 

“Nah, just got here.” 

He tightens his grip, rocking Ian back and forth playfully. “Come work out with me. We’ll motivate each other and shit.” 

Ian manages an actual smile that time. Jack comes on strong, but he’s mostly an easy guy to be around. And Ian _has_ to work out. He has to do something other than curl up into the fetal position, feel sorry for himself, and worry about what life will bring if he loses his visible six-pack. So he nods. 

“Sure. Let me change.” 

“Look pretty good like that,” Jack teases, stepping back and pulling off his shirt. Jack’s not a twink. He has committed to _“I can throw you around.”_

Ian digs into his bag for a tank that has seen better days. “Not trying to pick up today.” 

“Nah, I know you go for those grand-daddies,” Jack says and Ian knows he’s trying to be cute, but it stings. 

“Yeah.” He tries to laugh it off. “Too many 30-something hipsters in this place.”

“Hey.” 

Ian doesn’t look over at Jack because his voice has gone all earnest and sincere and Ian doesn’t think he can deal with that right now. 

“I know you have some shit going on, Gallagher.” 

Ian twists his mouth and glances up. He manages a shrug. 

“I’ll help you get through,” Jack says, with a meaningful look. “Promise. You’re really helping me out here.” 

“Yeah, no worries,” Ian nods and gathers up his shit to stuff it into one of the lockers while Jack starts to change. He looks down at his phone one last time. Just in case. There’s nothing to see. 

**Oliver**

One thing about Tuesday -- something Ian often forgets -- is that it’s an Oliver day. 

Oliver is maybe 55. Or maybe 40. He dresses in a way that makes it hard to tell. Never dressed for the actual club, suggesting he’s come from work. And whatever work is, it’s high class. A lawyer or something. Maybe an executive. Oliver has lots of money and fancy clothes and he likes Ian. A lot. 

He doesn’t know Ian’s real _name,_ of course. Doesn’t know anything about Ian as a person. But Ian is important to him. Ian is his _favourite._ When he comes in, he always looks for him, and as soon as Ian is available he leads Oliver over to the faux-leather couches, straddles him and watches Oliver watch him move. 

Ian can’t imagine why this is worth so MUCH to this guy. He doesn’t understand how it could possibly make him happy. But Oliver grins at him and makes approving noises and sometimes calls him “spectacular” or “exquisite.” Oliver isn’t handsy and he doesn’t try to push the limits. He tips real fucking well, and he buys at least two dances off Ian a night. In Ian’s life right now, Oliver is a bright spot. 

And he needs that. Having just come from spending a couple of hours at the gym with Jack, who had told him a couple of good stories about bullshit he’d gotten into as a teenager. Ian responded by telling him about running over rooftops to get away from the cops. He pushed through the emotion that started to come up, trying to only think about the good part of that story. Trying to ignore how much he misses Lip. How much he misses all the people he used to see every single fucking day of his life. Tries to concentrate on the idea that he’ll get that back again. It isn’t gone forever. 

In the meantime… He has Oliver. Who has just walked in. Ian is on the catwalk, dancing in his combat boots and his gold lame hot pants. He watches Oliver look for him. He can see the frown as he glances towards the places where they usually stick Ian. Then he turns his gaze upwards and smiles. The smile is nice. Ian smiles back and winks. 

This job is pretty easy in a lot of ways. On top of the youth and the body shit, he has advantages. Things that get him a bit of extra attention, and therefore a bit of extra cash. Number one: Redhead. It’s divisive, but the people who aren’t into gingers never come his way. For those who are? He’s a rare commodity. People like the hair, but he gets a lot of comments on the glow-in-the-dark skin. Since he started to wear eyeliner, he gets comments on his eye colour, too. 

Oliver likes all of that, but what he seems most fixated on, bizarrely, is the cleft in Ian’s chin. Oliver thinks this is a marvel. Not that Ian has one -- people have them -- but that Ian’s is perfect. He has a hint of chin-dimple and it is not distracting like it is with Mark Hamil and Michael Douglas. Ian isn’t entirely sure how flattered he should be to be compared to these hunks of the 70s, but ok. Better chin than Michael Douglas. Per Oliver’s VERY particular requirements, which involve having an indent, but not one that is begging for too much attention. 

There are probably other things that Oliver likes but doesn’t feel as comfortable talking about. Ian’s reasonably certain Oliver likes his arms and his abs. He seems to like his height. And Ian tries to smile, no matter what kind of mood he’s in, and Oliver seems to like that, too. 

Having made eye contact, Ian leaves his post and comes down the stairs. Someone vaguely familiar reaches out to him as he passes by and he pretends to know who they are. Then pull him in, arm around his waist and press a kiss to his cheek. He smiles and shouts “good to see you!” as he extricates himself. It’s a great advantage at the club. The music is too loud to talk. 

There’s another thing about Oliver. Sometimes? He brings party favours. And he likes to slip them to Ian in a very particular way -- sliding them onto his tongue himself. Ian isn’t opposed. Because it’s usually MDMA and as Ian figured out for himself, and as Ryan has since confirmed for him -- MDMA is good. Particularly for people suffering from PTSD and Bond Separation. 

Oliver is already sitting when Ian gets to him. Ian still smiles and slinks over to him, asking, “Looking for me?” 

He already looks excited. Eyes bright, a light sheen of sweat on his forehead. Ian doesn’t mind that this is intensely sexual for Oliver when it’s less than nothing to him. He cares very little about what other people find intensely sexual. More and more he feels like a very sophisticated robot. 

Oliver is already handing over his $25 and Ian is already sliding into his lap, and he’s getting off to a terrible start, wondering if Mickey ever replied to his text. He needs to focus because Oliver is a regular and he needs his regulars. He makes good money, but it seems to slip through his hands like water. 

“How’s your evening?” he murmurs into Oliver’s ear as he starts to move against him. Oliver actually giggles. 

“Improving.” 

Improving sounds great. Ian really needs to look into that. 

**Ned**

Ian hates thinking about Ned. But he does. All the time. 

He’s not sure if thinking about Ned makes him feel stupid or used or embarrassed. He does know thinking about Ned makes him feel terrible. 

He still can’t entirely track how the fuck it happened. That’s true of a lot of shit in the past few months. When he goes back over it, he has a hard time connecting it to himself. Understanding why the fuck things made sense to him at the time. 

It started with Monica. Roughly two weeks after leaving Tim, they’d been hiding out in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. Recovering from the worst illness of his life, and having had a hard conversation with Mickey, he’d barely been able to will himself to eat or drink when Monica had told him they had to go back home. 

“I can’t go to fucking Chicago,” Ian had told her, weakly, from the bed of the shitty motel they were holed up in. 

“It’ll just be a few weeks, sweetie. And we won’t go anywhere near Southside. I got friends we can crash with and maybe we can get a little money together and then we can go anywhere! Get a place, just you and me, huh?” She’d crouched down next to the bed so that she and Ian were eye-to-eye. He’d managed a weak smile, feeling like the doomed heroine of some 19th-century novel they’d have made him read in English class if he wasn’t suddenly a high school dropout. “I just have to take care of some stuff. We’ll be gone by Christmas.” 

“Christmas!” Ian had sputtered, kicking off a coughing fit because that was maybe 90% of his daily activity at the time. “That’s, like, two months!” 

“It’s six weeks!” Monica reached out to stroke his pale, clammy cheek. “I’ll take care of you, baby,” she’d cooed. “Haven’t I been taking care of you?” 

And she had. Ian had spent ten days in bed and still felt like a baby deer on ice every time he tried to walk. His mother had doted on him. Ian wasn’t used to it and he wanted to resist it, but he couldn’t deny that he’d fucking needed her. He was a total mess and if she didn’t help him, he was going to have to make a desperate call to Lip. Because it was now pretty fucking clear that Mickey wasn’t an option. 

So he’d given up arguing, and he’d let Monica bundle him up and drag him off to Chicago. He’d paid for bus tickets because the idea of hitching exhausted him, and one thing about living with Fucking Tim? It had been cheap. He’d slept the entire six hours. 

Monica’s friend turned out to be almost alarmingly stable. A nurse, though not the kind you’d find in a hospital, whose husband did roofs. They had a small house with a spare bedroom and a sullen teenage daughter. Ian got the sense that she and Monica had a complicated history and the woman had some guilt. So she set Ian and Monica up, with the understanding that they had to move on before Thanksgiving when she had family coming to town. 

That might have been bullshit, but Ian didn’t blame her. And his mother’s friend had been helpful. Made him eat three square meals with fruit and vegetables and shit. Gave him drink hot water with lemon and honey, and chicken soup until his cough got a little less terrifying. After a few days, Ian had started to feel like recovery was in reach. That’s when Monica had suggested the club. 

“You’re young, and you’re beautiful and they’ll _love_ you!” she’d enthused. And by that time, Ian had been feeling sad and desperate and maybe even a little heartbroken. He didn’t have his usual drive and didn’t know what else to do. Monica said they could stay six weeks, and they could go south to Louisville or St. Louis. They just needed some money. And, she pointed out, once Ian had some experience working at a bar in Chicago, he’d be able to get work pretty much anywhere.

Getting a job was easy. The management group owned four establishments in Boystown and they’d put him on the schedule at the White Swallow starting the very next Monday. After a few training shifts, they scheduled him for some weeknights to start. Just to make sure he wasn’t a complete mess. 

He wasn’t. By the end of his first shift, he was pretty sure he was going to be able to make this work. He’d be able to make more behind the bar, but while they were willing to pretend he was over 18, he had to be 21 to serve, so he mostly danced. He picked up the basics pretty quickly and pretty soon he gave no outward signs of how green he was. Management seemed happy. 

The first time he saw Ned, he was in the middle of his fourth shift overall, but his first at the Fairy Tail. It was pretty late when he’d come in. He was alone, in a sharp grey suit, looking a bit better than the last time Ian had seen him. He was scanning the room for what Ian assumed was a likely target. 

Ned had been delighted to see him. Had given him a one-armed hug and clapped his shoulder. Ian, a couple of shots in, was just excited to see someone from his life and it took him a hot second to fully ingest that this is a disaster. 

“Shit,” he’d called over the music. “You can’t tell anyone you saw me!” 

“Of course,” Ned gestured around the room. “Honour among thieves.” 

“No one knows where I am,” he tried to explain -- but fucking talking was impossible in the club unless he was straddling someone’s lap. Ned had written his number on a cocktail napkin and told Ian to give him a call. They’d go for coffee. 

Ian had not given Ned a call. Partly because it seemed like a bad idea, but mostly because he just… forgot. He was finally starting to feel better after weeks of illness and he actually had something to do with his time. He was meeting people. For the first time in Ian’s entire life, he spent a large portion of his time in spaces where pretty much everyone was gay. He fucking loved the freedom of it. And the people at the club seemed to love fresh meat. 

Ian tried not to think too much about what it would feel like to be here with Mickey, but the idea would sneak up on him sometimes. Once, when Ian during a 90s retro night, he’d watched two guys making out all through an entire Stone Roses song. Like hardcore, romantic, end-of-the-movie shit. Kissing each other like it was the only thing that mattered. The second the song had ended, he’d bolted the stage, barely able to breathe. 

But that was early on. He got better at compartmentalizing. Soon he was bringing in enough money that he hadn’t totally panicked when he and Monica had left the comparative warmth and safety of their temporary lodgings in Avondale and ended up with Evelyn. He’d roughed it with ROTC. He was resourceful. And ok -- there were some rodents. But it wasn’t an infestation, and there weren’t fucking cockroaches. He could live with it. And it was temporary. They’d be moving on soon enough. 

It was fully after Thanksgiving -- Black Friday -- when he saw Ned again. It wasn't even strictly in the club. He’d ducked out a back door into an alley, having thrown a jacket on over his hot pants, so that he could have a fucking cigarette when he heard the good doctor approaching. 

“Ian,” came the familiar croon. “Imagine seeing you here.” 

Ian smirked, peering down the alley. “Curtis. And I’m on break.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry. _Curtis._ Are you incognito?” 

Ian takes a drag off his cigarette, not entirely sure what Ned is saying to him. “Everyone uses a name. Just… What we do.” 

“Well, I won’t betray your secrets,” Ned leaned a shoulder against the wall. “How long have you been working here, Curtis?” 

“Couple of weeks,” Ian allowed. 

“And your family doesn’t know?” 

“You can probably find all that out from Jimmy.” 

“Ah, Jimmy has never been one to confide in dear old dad,” Ned looked Ian up and down. “You must be freezing.” 

“Can’t smoke inside. It’s fine. I’ve been cutting down anyway.” 

“Well,” Ned murmured. “I don’t want to be responsible for you catching cold. Let me upgrade my offer of coffee to a good meal. I’d love to catch up.” 

In the beginning, Ned was good for him. Like, obviously good. He’d buy dances solely so that they could talk -- and Ian would give him a nod when he was taking a smoke break, so they could talk at the back doors. Ned was flirtatious, but he always _had_ been. Ian just kinda accepted it as Ned being Ned. Ned was also helpful. 

First, from the start, Ned kept his secret. He never told anyone Ian was in Chicago. 

Then, when Monica took off the first time, just after Thanksgiving, Ned sensed how unmoored Ian felt and invited him out for a late lunch on his day off. They’d gone to a gastropub, something Ian didn’t have a ton of experience with. Ned had encouraged him to try fish tacos for the first time in his life and they’d talked about Ian’s “situation”. Ned, again, swearing he wouldn’t breathe a word, but wanting to help. 

Ned had also listened when Ian confessed about the challenges he was having with the fucked up living situation, and it was Ned who had told him about the Y. Ian had pointed out that he didn’t have a bank account, let alone a credit card, so he couldn’t exactly sign up for a membership. Ned dismissed that as absurd and had taken Ian down the street to a Wells Fargo. Ian had opened an account, gotten a debit card, and then let Ned put $200 into the account. “Consider it payment for that situation you helped me with in the summer.” 

“That situation didn’t exactly work out for you.” 

“But you tried. Your friend got sprayed with buckshot. You can split it with him.” 

Ian’s poker face had failed and Ned had seen every bit of the sadness that Ian had let wash over him at the mere reference to Mickey’s existence. He had tactfully put a comforting hand on Ian’s shoulder and said nothing else. 

So. With $200 in the bank account, they had headed over the Y, where Ian was able to use one of the temporary checks to set up an automatic withdrawal for the membership fee. And now he had a place to shower. 

The next time Ned had come to the club, he’d given Ian a fucking iPhone. Not new. Nothing insane like that. Just his old phone. Already had a fucking case and shit. Ian told him he didn’t have a phone plan -- he was still getting by solely on the burner from MIckey -- and Ned had said it wasn’t a problem. What was he doing the next day? 

So the next day, Ian and Ned went out, got Ian a SIM card and set him up as Ned’s phone plan. Temporarily. Just while Ian was getting settled. Sorting things out with his mom. 

The iPhone had changed everything. He could leach off of free wifi around the city. He could text people novels in the time it used to take him to tell someone he was running late. He didn’t have limited minutes anymore, so he could call people. 

He didn’t. But he could. 

He felt outsized gratitude, maybe, about the fucking phone. A warmth in his chest. It was the same way he’d felt when Monica had made banana bread with him. When Kash would buy him little things. Just… a feeling like someone had noticed him. Like he was worth some attention. 

He really wishes he’d left it there.

But. Ian’s life was chaos, and Ned was there -- asking to listen -- and Ian kept letting him. Kept letting him buy dances and kept telling him what was going on. And when Monica’s trip back to Wisconsin, which she had sworn up and down would only be a couple of days, was stretching towards a whole week, Ned invited Ian to crash on his couch. 

“Ian,” he’d laughed. “It’s December. You’re 17. I have a nice place and no one to share it with. That place you’re staying in sounds like a death trap. Just stay with me until your mother comes back.” 

In fact, Ian had understated just how bad the place he was living was. But Ned wasn’t stupid. He could probably figure that out. And Ian also hadn’t been prepared for how fucking nice Ned’s condo was. Ned had come down in the world, but he was still miles above where Ian ever expected to get. He had a sunroom with a modular couch shaped like a kidney bean. You could pull the back and armrests off and turn it into the most comfortable bed Ian had ever slept in. 

Ned also had a rainfall showerhead, an expensive coffee machine that could make almost anything with the push of a few buttons, and heat. Ned had heat. He gave Ian a key. On the first night he spent there, Ian had come home at almost 5 AM and stood at the floor to ceiling windows, watching early December flurries against the dark sky while a steady stream of hot air came down from a vent two feet away. 

He’d felt his heart lift. He felt safe here. Like it was going to be ok. He’d pulled out his phone and typed Mickey a quick text. 

“Going to bed. Call me when you can. Even if you wake me the fuck up.” 

Ian considered how that text would look. Mickey was prickly as fuck about what Ian sent to his phone, especially during times when someone else might see it before he got to it. Ian hit the backspace, filing it back to a simple “Going to bed.” 

He hoped Mickey would get the rest of it. Would take in all the shit Ian couldn’t send through. _I miss you. I love you. I want to come home._

The next morning -- ok, early afternoon -- Ian woke up to a text from Fiona and nothing from Mickey. His stomach had clenched with the low-grade unease he always got when Mickey left him on read. He distracted himself by opening the message from his sister. 

_“It would help me out if you could tell me you’re ok right now.”_

_“I’m ok.”_

The dots popped up almost immediately. Uncharacteristically quickly. 

_“Good.”_

That was it. 

Ian had gotten up and wandered out of the sunroom and into Ned’s empty apartment. He fiddled with his phone a bit. He shouldn’t call Mickey. Mickey did not appreciate it when Ian called him. But he felt anxious and jittery. He should have a shower -- Oh, but he should also go to the gym. And he should go back to the squat and get more clothes. He didn’t work until 8, but what else was he going to do with himself? 

Standing at the window again, Ian touched the glass, pressing his forehead against it, and looked down to the street below. An idea had popped into his head. And once there, he couldn’t shake it. He woke up his phone again and typed before he could talk himself out of it. 

_“Hey. Can you keep a secret?”_

Two hours later he was standing at the bottom of the L, hands deep in the pockets of his parka, nearly vibrating with excitement as he watched people flow out of the station. Mandy came down the stairs sneering, hair half up, half down, and eyes darting around. He stopped himself from literally jumping up and down. Just stood still and smiled when she spotted him. 

“Holy fuck,” she hissed as she crossed to him. “I was hoping you were fucking with me.” 

“It’s not a permanent situation.” 

“Yeah?” Mandy raised her eyebrows. “You better stay this far north, Ian. Mickey got my dad to chill, but that’s all going to go to absolute shit if you show up again.” 

Ian didn’t want to talk about this. Mandy had a point, but he knew this. He was living his entire life around that fucking principle. He was also lonely and he wanted his best friend. For an afternoon. 

“Look, can we just,” Ian pulled on her shirt cuff, dragging her further from the crowd. “Forget Mickey and all that shit for a second? And hang out? I fucking miss you.” 

Mandy softened. Mandy softening in the face of kindness was one thing that hadn’t changed, at least. 

“I miss you, too,” she said, thickly. And then she fell into his arms. 

Things were not going great in Southside, Ian swiftly found out. She didn’t spend a lot of time on Mickey -- working a lot, worrying about Ian, please go easy on him, whatever the fuck that meant -- but she had a lot to say about Lip. And Karen. Fucking Karen. 

Ian listened because it was news from the homefront and he was hungry for it. He interjected to ask questions about Debbie and Liam and Carl, but Mandy always swerved right back to Karen and Lip. 

Ian and Lip weren’t texting. Initially because Lip was fucking furious at Ian for leaving, and now… Now, probably, because Lip was a walking contradiction, struggling to get a diploma he said he didn’t care about, to go to a college he was terrified of, while balancing two girls he didn’t know what to do about. Ian didn’t have to talk to him to work all that out. 

He got the distinct sense that Mandy was losing this particular war. Ian did his best to try and reassure her. But he knew Lip. And he knew Lip and Karen. Mandy was going to have to get into the crash position. 

So he’d tried to distract her by pointing out the holiday decorations and cool store window displays. Mandy was a full-on grinch, though. It was a position Ian understood -- but the idea of Christmas was starting to get under his skin. He’d been so focused on survival the last few weeks, it hadn’t entirely hit him. He always worked hard, with Fiona and Lip, to make things ok for his younger siblings. And this year he wasn’t going to be there. He wasn't even going to be able to contribute to the Christmas squirrel fund. Except he COULD. He could do that! 

“Hey,” he’d cut Mandy off, mid-rant. “Christmas presents.” 

“What?”

“I can send Christmas presents. For the kids.” 

“Ian,” Mandy had adopted a warning tone immediately. 

“No, I can.” 

“They’ll be postmarked.” 

“Your dad stalking out our porch?” 

“No, but Lip will 100% go looking for you if he thinks you’re in Chicago. Come on.” 

“I could drop them off in the middle of the night.” 

“IAN!” 

She reacted like he’d had suggested ritual suicide. 

“OKAY,” he shot back. “I won’t fucking go to Southside. Calm down.” 

“You CAN’T!” 

“I know!” 

“I will tell Mickey where to find you so that he can come and murder you himself!” 

She wasn’t kidding. Ian felt something in his chest tighten. Somehow, through all of this, the dynamic where Mandy was his friend before she was Mickey’s sister had shifted. It just always felt like she was on Mickey’s side, now. Like Mickey somehow had a side that Ian wasn’t on. 

“It’s hard,” he’d told her after they’d walked two blocks in furious silence. “I don’t have _anyone,_ Mands.” He swallowed, painfully. “Not the way I used to. And it’s Christmas and I’m gonna be away -- maybe far away, by then. I dunno. I’m just trying to stay out of sight, but I don’t want--” 

He couldn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t want to be forgotten. 

“If I gave you money,” He’d tried again. “Could you maybe give Mickey something from me?” 

“For Christmas?” 

“Yeah.” 

Mandy had frowned at him. “Ian. It’s dangerous.” 

“I don’t even care what it is. Like… fucking gloves or something. A six-pack. A carton of cigarettes. I don’t care.” 

Mandy chewed her bottom lip, at least giving Ian’s request some thought. Even though he knew what she was going to say. 

“I think he’d fucking freak, Ian. Honestly. He’s spun real tight right now, even for Mickey. I think something like that? He’d lose his fucking mind.” 

Ian had bowed his head, fighting hard not to start crying in the middle of North Halstead like a total asshole. 

“I miss him,” he managed, finally.

“I know.” 

No one really knew, though. Because Ian wasn’t talking to anyone about how far away Mickey felt to him right now. It might be irrational, but he felt like he’d lost the ability to make Mickey smile. Like all he was now was a source of stress. And that fucking hurt. 

Mandy had put a hand on Ian’s arm and he’d let her. They’d stood like that, in the middle of a busy sidewalk, while Ian did his best to collect himself. 

“Can I at least buy you a gingerbread latte or whatever shit you’re drinking?” 

Mandy had grinned. “Peppermint mocha. Come on.” 

Ian told Mandy a little bit more than he really should have, but it felt good to talk to someone who already knew him. He realized, now that his mother had vanished, that he’d gotten used to being able to spill his guts to her on the daily. He’d never really had that, even at home. Ian was used to playing things close to the vest. But with Monica, he’d babble. And that somehow led to him babbling at Mandy. He told her about dancing. Told her he and Monica were going to leave by Christmas, once he had some money together. He told her he was moving around, staying at a lot of different places. And he told her where the phone had come from. 

“Did you tell Mickey you’d upgraded?” Mandy asked. 

“Had to. Number changed.” Ian exhaled. “He didn’t want to know anything else, though.” 

“No,” Mandy had murmured, as they arrived back at the L station. “I think he mostly tries to pretend you don’t exist. Not in a bad way,” she clarified off of what must have been Ian’s look of horror. “Just in a… trying to stay sane way.” She’d shifted her weight, suddenly uncomfortable. “I think I get it a bit better now. What you said? How being apart is bad for you.” 

Panic seized Ian. “Is Mickey ok?” 

“Yeah! Yeah, no. I don’t mean… I just see how much work it is for you guys. To stay apart. Kinda takes it out of you.” 

Ian nodded, distracted by the idea that this was _taking something out_ of Mickey. 

“You take care of yourself, ok?” Mandy had reached out and squeezed Ian’s hand. “This won’t be forever.” 

And then she’d dashed up the stairs to the L and was gone. Just like that. 

Ian hadn’t called again. They texted a bit. But then Mandy and Lip had broken up and it was ugly. She took up with some other guy immediately. Didn’t want to talk about it. Maybe didn’t want to talk to Gallaghers, full stop. He let it go. 

Ian stayed with Ned until Monica came back nearly a full week later. It had worked. Their schedules didn’t exactly align, so he didn’t feel like he was in the way. Sometimes Ned was around when Ian woke up -- but more and more, Ian wasn’t finding it that easy to go straight to bed after work. He’d come home wired, so he’d make Ned breakfast before finally crashing around 10 or 11, well after Ned had left for the hospital. He’d clean to burn up some energy, and Ned seemed to like those little things. Some nights, when Ned was home before he left for the club, and they’d have dinner together. Ned would order out -- Indian, Chinese, Japanese, Thai. Ian tried a bunch of shit he’d never had before and he liked most of it. He also liked being fed. He liked Ned’s low-key flirting that never went anywhere. And while he often stood at the window, looking out at a Chicago he barely recognized and feeling like Rapunzel stuck in the tower, he had to give this to the witch -- No homicidal maniacs ever came for Rapunzel. 

When Monica finally came back, it was regularly 30 degrees out, and lower than that at night. But Ian found he really did want to go back to the squat with his mother. Ned teased him lightly -- “Surely my company isn’t that objectionable!” -- and insisted he keep his key. Ian had smiled with gratitude. Hugged him as he left. Ned kissed him on the cheek, which he found a liiiiiittle weird, but Ned was a little weird. So he shrugged it off. 

The first night Monica was back, she came to the club with him. Talked to his coworkers and danced and made friends with everyone. They went out for late-night pizza afterwards and he was in a great mood, honestly, when they got home. Feeling happy in a way that should have been a red flag. He finds that so weird to think about now. How UP he felt and how _stupid_ that was. He isn’t usually that stupid about his parents. 

But he was a fucking moron about Monica, because the next day, over a lunch Ian had paid for at a local diner, Monica told him she was going to head back to north. Not to Tim! Of course not. Never. But she had some friends up there and there was a chance for her to make some money and they NEEDED money, right? And Ian should stay in Chicago because it wouldn’t be any fun for him there, and she’d be back soon. 

“But I can dance anywhere. I could go to Milwaukee--” 

“No, baby. You should stay here.” 

Monica said it so firmly that Ian understood what she was really saying. It wasn't that he should stay in Chicago -- he very clearly should NOT -- it was that she didn’t want him to come with her. And it wasn't up for discussion. 

Ian just stared at her. He _really_ hadn’t expected this. Not after Wisconsin. Not after Iowa. Yeah, he’d been stressed out when she didn’t rush back from Milwaukee, but… she’d said things to him after they’d run away from Tim. And he’d believed them, for some fucked up reason. Maybe because he needed her then, but more… because he felt _close_ to her. He felt a kinship with Monica that he didn’t share with anyone else in his family, not even Lip. There was something about being with her that made Ian feel like he belonged with someone. And since he couldn’t have Mickey right now, that feeling had meant a whole fucking lot to him. 

And now she was leaving. 

“When are…” Ian pulled in his breath, but it felt like nothing was actually entering his lungs. “How long?” 

“Just… Maybe until after Christmas? I don’t know, honey. I just… I just have to work some things out. But you’re good here! You can stay at the house, with Evelyn!” 

“Monica. The guy who wants me dead _lives_ here.” How the fuck did he have to remind her of that? 

“Terry Milkovich isn’t going to come up here!” Monica snorted. “You might as well be in Kansas! You have a job, You have some friends. Evelyn said you had another place to stay while I was gone! Was it with that nice doctor?” 

Ian nodded, numbly. 

“Honey!” Monica’s eyes filled with tears and she had reached out and put her hand right over his heart. “You can call me any time. I’m not far away. I just gotta do this. Ok? And I’ll be back! I’ll be back and I’ll have some money, and you’ll have some money, and then we can go anywhere! Just you and me.” 

“Ok,” Ian managed, swallowing down the mess of feelings blocking his airway. “Yeah. You and me.” 

“Baby,” Monica had beamed at him, taking both his hands. “Always.” 

He knew she wouldn’t come back. This had been the most time he’d ever spent with Monica, one-on-one. But he knew it would end this way, even as he found himself surprised it was already happening. 

So three days after he’d left, Ian was back on Ned’s doorstep, trying to pretend that everything was cool, it was just really cold, and maybe…

Ned had seen right through him. Had gathered him into a hug and Ian had let him. Had held on and buried his face in Ned’s silk-robed shoulder. He fought the tears pretty fucking hard and was mostly successful. Grateful he didn’t have to work that night, at least. Ned had suggested they order in. He’d poured Ian a scotch and they’d settled on the couch and watched Pacific Rim on HBO. The movie was a distraction, and the food was probably good, but Ian could barely taste it. He didn’t totally pay attention to Ned refiling his glass -- like, he knew it was happening, but he wasn’t keeping track -- until he went to stand up and realized he was fucking trashed. 

“Shit,” he’d muttered, dropping back onto the couch. 

“It’s ok,” Ned’s voice was light. Playful, even. “We all need to indulge sometimes. You don’t have to be anywhere tomorrow.” He’d shaken Ian’s shoulder in a sort of _good game, sport_ sort of way. Then he guided Ian to lie down on the couch, with his head resting on Ned’s thigh. Ian felt tired for the first time in weeks… and he let Ned stroke his hair and tried not to think about other people who had done that for him. Ned’s hands were warm and they felt good. He’d closed his eyes and let himself drift. Idly wondered if Ned had any pot because he was maybe in the mood for it. 

“Tell you what,” Ned murmured. “Why don’t you sleep in my room tonight? I’ve got a king. Lots of room. I don’t think you should be alone when you feel like this.” 

Why not? Why the fuck not. 

The next afternoon, mildly hungover, Ian had gone up to Ned’s roof to get a smoke. Stood looking at the sights, and fiddled with his phone. Finally, he’d bitten the bullet and shot off a text. 

_“Hey.”_

_“Hey.”_

The response was pretty quick. Ian’s nerves had flared. _“Talk?”_

_“Yeah. Gimme a second.”_

A second turned out to be 15 minutes. Ian smoked two cigarettes, staring out at Lake Michigan. Finally, his phone buzzed. 

“Hey,” he breathed, pressing it tightly to his ear, like being close to the phone and close to Mickey was the same thing. 

“Where the fuck are you? The wind is crazy.” 

“You wanna know where I am?” 

“You don’t have to give me coordinates,” Mickey sounded terse. “Just where the fuck are you? Inside a fucking turbine?” 

“Roof. I guess the wind’s kinda strong.” 

“Can barely fucking hear you.” 

Ian turned, sitting down against the stone half-wall that ran around the rooftop. He hunched over, huddling like the Little Match Girl. “Better?” 

“A bit, yeah.” 

Ian had no idea what to say next. He reached into his pocket and pulled out yet another cigarette. Managed to light it and take a drag before Mickey found something he wanted to say. 

“You doing ok?” 

“Does it matter?” Ian sounded petulant, even to his own ears. “I mean. Grand scheme. If I feel like shit, it doesn’t change anything.” 

“Just asking a fucking question.” 

“I feel like shit. There’s your answer.” 

“You wanted me to call just to tell me that?” 

“Kinda,” he admits. “Yeah. Kinda wanted you to know.” 

“What do you want me to _do_ , Ian?” 

He didn’t know. CARE, he guessed. Fucking empathize. Or do what Mandy did. Give him an afternoon. Just one fucking afternoon. Or say something sweet for a hot second. Mickey had never been real over the top with the declarations of love, but Ian can’t _remember_ the last time Mickey said it to him. And it wasn't going to happen in this conversation, while Ian was bratting out about shit he couldn't even tell Mickey about.

“Just had a bad day,” he managed, finally. “And I fucking miss you.” 

“Uh huh,” Mickey sounded tense. “Yeah. Got it.” 

“Got it,” Ian repeats, dully. 

“Yeah. I _got_ it. Same here.” 

Ian was tempted to start humming _Say My Name._ Instead he took another drag. 

“You never have bad days?” 

“They're all bad days.” 

Ian smiled at that. That sounded like Mickey. _That_ sounded like his soulmate. 

“Know the feeling,” he exhaled. “Fuck, Mickey.” 

“Can’t do this now.” 

Ian closes his eyes. Fucking ouch.

“When CAN you do this?” 

“I can’t--” a huff had come over the line. “It’s a lot fucking harder when you do this.” 

“Do what?” 

“Tell me shit like this. Let me know it fucking sucks where you are.” 

Ian’s face heats. “That so.” 

“Yeah. And we gotta keep doing this, so. Just. If it’s real bad, let me know. But don’t--” 

“Whine?” 

“Not what I said.” 

Ian nodded to himself. _Not what he said…_

“Next time I break a nail, I’ll keep it to myself.” 

“Don’t be like that.” 

Be like _what?_ Be like a person who just wants to feel like their (ex)boyfriend gives a shit about them? Or even knows them? Or wants to? 

“I should let you go,” Ian says, finally. 

“Ok. Ok, yeah.” 

“Yeah.” 

There might have been a little venom on that last word. Maybe. Ian hung up before it got worse. 

He’d gone to the gym after that and run on the treadmill for a straight hour and a half, which was probably a stupid thing to do because he had to work. But then work was fine. He accepted the offer of some coke halfway through his shift and everything had felt GREAT after that. And when he got home, there was a note on the sunroom door pointing out that it was going to be bright in the morning. Which it was. So he crashed in Ned’s room again. Because nothing had happened last time and he was right. The bed was huge. 

After that, things kinda sped up. Ian started to avoid Mickey. And probably he’d been avoiding Mickey a little ever since Iowa. But after that conversation, an uneasiness had calcified into fear. Talking to Mickey used to be the one thing that comforted him. Now, feeling wounded from Monica’s latest abandonment, it felt dangerous. Like his heart couldn’t take it. 

So his heart tried on other things. It tried working out a lot. It tried drinking and picking up the club drugs with greater frequency. It tried not _caring_ about Mickey and focused instead on key issues like perfecting his eyeliner. It tried not correcting the occasional errant hand that grabbed his ass or pulling away from guys who would breathe on his neck. It tried playing along with people who were having fun. 

And then it tried Ned. 

Technically, Ned made the first move. One night, after he’d come to the club and brought Ian home in an Uber, they’d sat on the couch, Ian having a beer to try and mellow himself out a little. They’d sat in easy silence, barely interrupted by the occasional mild observation. And then Ned had leaned over and tried to kiss him. 

Ian had moved off the couch and across the room so fast, it was like he had wings. He wasn’t sure who was more shocked by that -- him or Ned. Because Ian wasn’t a fucking virgin and he wasn’t exactly squeamish about sex. And he certainly knew Ned was willing. This was not a surprising turn of events. 

“I’m bonded,” he’d blurted out. 

“Ok.” Ned was thoroughly unconcerned. 

“We’re not together, obviously. But I’m bonded. I’m not--”

“Fucking around?” 

He wasn’t. He had opportunities like his younger self would not have believed. Lots of drooling older men, which seemed to be a specialty of his, but lots of hot young guys, too. Other dancers. Bartenders. It seemed like most of the people Ian encountered were at least an _option._

He didn’t want options. 

But he couldn’t have what he wanted. And Mickey had said they should do whatever they needed to do to survive. And life with Ned was a million times better than life with Evelyn. And now that the move was made, Ian was going to have to answer it with something. He couldn’t continue to leech off of Ned and enjoy his shower and his food and his heat. Not without some kind of reciprocation. 

“I haven’t--” Ian paused. “I’m not into kissing.” 

“Ok.” Ned leaned back on the couch, looking utterly at peace. “I don’t need kissing.” 

The implication was that he needed something, though. Ian took a breath. Then he laughed. Had a swig of his beer. His head was already swimming and it was late and did it really fucking matter? Like, it’s just bodies. It’s just getting off. He’d gotten used to something else, but he could only have that with Mickey. And that idea was getting increasingly theoretical. 

_I’m not a fucking pussy._ That was the bizarre thought that went through Ian’s head right before he decided to start a sexual relationship he was, at best, apathetic about. Like getting Ned off was going to be proof of personal fortitude. An indication that he had what it takes to get through a difficult situation. Without text messages and phone calls and I love yous. With just determination and the ability to suck off a 60-year-old doctor in record time.

He put down his beer and he smiled at Ned. Smiled like he would on stage. Then he crossed the floor, knelt beside the couch, and pushed Ned’s legs apart. Ned’s smile stayed cool and knowing. 

“Ok,” Ian agreed. “No kissing.” 

That was the first time he gave a blow job for reasons other than wanting to. By the end of the next week, he’d accepted $50 from two different guys at the club for the same service. Because it didn’t feel that different and because he’d decided it doesn’t matter. He wasn’t a pussy. And money is money. 

**Joey**

The first time Ian met Joey it was his birthday. Apparently, Ian was the dancer that caught his eye, so his friends bought him a lap dance. Twice. 

Joey was a little drunk, and also thought lap dances were more funny than sexy, so it was even more performative than usual. Ian had writhed and ground against him and Joey had held up his drink and “woo'd” and his friends had laughed. When Joey drunkenly put a hand on Ian’s hip, Ian didn’t do anything about it. And after Ian got off shift, he was invited to tag along to their next location. He went. Because he wasn’t tired and they’d tipped well and Ian usually went along with people if they seemed harmless. 

Joey seemed harmless. He still does. 

Joey is pretty. He has long, dark curly hair and a van dyke. He looks a little like Orlando Bloom. He wears tight t-shirts and tighter pants. He flirts endlessly, with everyone, but he never seems serious about any of it. And he’s a tattoo artist. A pretty good one. There are about a dozen pictures of Joey with various celebrities on the walls of his studio. 

Joey likes to have fun. He calls himself a “hedonist” and explains that he’s into wine and song, but he “can’t get there” with the women. His father’s a lawyer and his mother makes hand-stitched dolls that she sells on Etsy. He and Ian get to know each other partly because Joey also likes to ask a lot of questions, but also because he smokes. 

And here is the thing: in a world where everyone has to duck off to a cold dark alley to smoke? You get to know people. And at first, that’s all it is. Joey remembers Ian because Ian is the only redhead, and Joey thinks he’s “adorable”. 

Not a word Ian’s been called since he left grade school, but whatever. Joey got him talking about the army one night and Ian ends up rambling like an enthusiastic 12-year-old and yes, Joey thought that was _adorable._

Joey asked him about his family, and Ian told him about his mildly psychopathic little brother and that was also adorable. 

Joey invited him to a house party, where Ian could dance for fun instead of for the pleasure of others. He and Joey danced to a few upbeat songs together and he got upgraded to delightful. 

“So,” Joey asked as he passed Ian a joint out on his fire-escape balcony. “You local? You sound local, but I dunno--” 

“Back of the Yards, yeah,” Ian admitted, not sure why he was allowing this much reality into his conversation with the pretty party boy. 

“Southside, right?” Joey essentially confirmed that he is not Chicago born and bred with that one. “I grew up in Tulsa. So, you know. This is the Big City to me.” 

Ian laughed out a lungful of smoke. “It IS a big city.” 

“Ah, yeah. But sometimes people talk like I should be on a coast. I dunno. I like it here. More authentic.” 

Authentic. Ian must have given Joey a look because he laughed. 

“Oh, I LIKE you,” Joey grinned from ear to ear. “You don’t like bullshit.” 

“Not my thing, no.” 

“Sorry, I know I sound like an asshole. But whatever. I was _dying_ in Oklahoma. I’m not even really from Tulsa, I grew up in Owaaaaaaasso. Boring as fuck.” 

Ian knew fuck all about Tulsa, or Oklahoma or whatever. Chicago might resent New York, but it has its own ego and its own tendency not to look outward a whole lot. Besides -- a boring childhood is something Ian was never going to understand as a problem. 

“What’s it like being gay in Tulsa?” he asked, sincerely curious. 

“Bible belt,” Joey’s grin didn’t dim. “What’s it like being gay in Southside?” 

“Dangerous.” He was being too fucking honest, but again, Joey just smiled. 

“That’s gotta be a long trip this time of night. You wanna crash here?” 

Ian shook his head. “Nah, I’m kinda staying with someone right now. He’s not that far from here. I can just take an Uber.” 

“Ah, the pretty boys move up,” Joey said, licking his fingers to extinguish the joint. “Lucky guy.” 

“It’s not like that.” 

“No?” 

“I’ve got a soulmate. We’re just… We can’t be together right now. So I’m just kinda… Where I am.” 

“No shit,” Joey had looked taken by this. “I don’t know if I’ve ever known someone my age who found his soulmate. You guys bonded and everything?” 

Ian smiled slightly. “Yeah. It’s just… Complicated and shit.” 

“Oh,” Joey made a face. “Don’t Facebook status me. You love him?” 

Ian nodded, feeling his face heat. 

“Adooooorabe. You are too cute. How are you allowed to exist in this WORLD, Curtis?” 

It’s slightly jarring to hear that name and Ian frowns. 

“We all dance under names, you know.” 

Joey did NOT know this, because Joey doesn’t hang out with people who aren’t in his weird mix of artists, actors and musicians. He loved this, too. Joey grabbed his bicep and shook his arm. “CURTIS! I don’t even know your NAME? I fucking LOVE it!” 

Ian has never, ever met anyone like Joey. He can’t figure out why he likes him so much. He should want to punch him in the throat. But Joey’s 100% Fun approach to everything is appealing and of all the things Ian has tried out since leaving Mickey, looking at the world the way Joey does is one of the more effective. 

So he hung out with Joey and his collection of similarly attired and similarly gushy friends -- who Ian universally found less charming -- and he tried out Having Fun. He usually worked until 2 AM and the parties went late, which was exactly what he wanted to do. His body wanted to keep moving and it liked being around people who seem to feel the same way. They were fun, and though Ian invited Ned when he got the sense that his late nights were putting him out, Ned had demurred. 

It was only a few weeks, but it had started to feel like a lifestyle by the time Christmas arrived. Ian had been _dreading_ Christmas. Ned was going to spend it with his non-Jimmy son, which was a relief because Ian really didn’t want the pressure that would come with spending Christmas Day with Ned. It felt too much like a relationship, and Ian was filing this shit under “arrangement”. He scheduled himself to work, which meant he had to dance in a Santa hat, which was very sweaty. He’d expected the clientele to be kinda depressing, but it wasn’t. Lots of people turned up and most of them seemed to be feeling genuinely festive. Joey walked in around 11, surrounded by a large group of similarly hot guys, and looking delighted with life, just like always. He had some blow and Ian joined him in the bathroom to do a line of coke off his wrist. Afterward, Joey had grabbed his face and pushed up onto his tiptoes to kiss his forehead, like Glinda the Good Witch. 

“Go forth and make merry, Curtis!” 

Ian had felt really good that night. Just really fucking good. Like he wasn’t trying to have fun anymore, it was just happening. Everything was loud and raucous and he was getting tipped really fucking well and the coke must have been supremely good because he felt fucking fantastic and he wasn’t flagging at all. 2 AM came before he even knew it. 

He wasn’t sure now why he texted Ned. He usually just went off with Joey after his shift without telling him. And even though Ned had intimated that he didn’t love that, Ian hadn’t found himself capable of caring much. Ian was taking care of Ned in the mornings before he went to work, or in the evenings before Ian left for the club at night and he couldn’t imagine what the fuck else Ned wanted him around for, especially since he generally was crashed out no matter how early Ian came home. 

But that night, he sent a text. Maybe because it was Christmas? Maybe because he was feeling so good and so alive and he just wanted to share it? Anyway, he did it, and Ned responded. 

_“I’d really like it if you came home.”_

Home. It honestly threw him for a second. Then he realized Ned meant the condo. 

_“You ok?”_

_“I could use some company.”_

So he’d agreed to let Ned send an Uber for him and he hugged Joey and a bunch of other people whose names he didn’t know goodbye and he went “home”. 

Ned was up and drinking. He’d poured Ian a scotch and immediately identified that he was tweaking. Ian had picked up on a frisson of disapproval and slid down onto the couch. “That a problem?”

“No,” Ned said vaguely. “No. Just don’t make a habit of it. It can be hard to shake.” 

Yeah, he didn’t need that lecture, but Ian didn’t bother to argue. He’d just taken a swig of the scotch and asked Ned how his Christmas was. And Ned talked at him about how it had been quiet and tense. No one knew where Jimmy was -- which was news to Ian -- and there was tension about the divorce and the decline in circumstances. Some resentment that Ned seemed to be living the life, anyway. Not being sufficiently punished for his bad behaviour. 

“I can’t make them happy,” he’d said, finally. Ian had gotten distracted watching lights out of the window, but he figured he had the gist. 

“Family’s hard,” he murmured. It was amazing how often he had to tell that to people who had never had to drag their father’s prone body out of the way so that he would get down the stairs for breakfast. 

Ned smiled and reached out, placing a warm hand on Ian’s thigh. “Thank you for coming home. I know you’d rather be partying with your friends.” 

Ian shrugged. “I have family, too.” The grief of it surged up out of fucking nowhere. “First Christmas without them. I didn’t even call.” 

Ned nodded. “I’m sure they understand.” 

Maybe? Ian wasn’t sure. He never “talked” to anyone but Fiona and that was all over text. He felt a weight settle in his chest. 

“Kinda don’t want to think about it.” 

Ned’s hand squeezed his thigh. “I was hoping you’d feel that way.” 

That was the first night Ian fucked Ned. Up to the point, he’d been able to get by with hand jobs and blow jobs. Ned returned the favour some, mostly in category A and Ian was fine with that. Because while he liked the orgasm, he was finding himself a bit indifferent to how he got there. 

But that night -- maybe it was the coke or maybe he was desperately trying to buck off the feeling of loss that was settling over him. But they’d had sex. Kinda a lot of it, before Ian finally passed out around 5 AM, feeling hot and unsettled and like his brain was an orchestra tuning up for a performance that never arrived. 

The next morning, Ian crashed hard. The hardest he’d crashed this whole fucking time. Harder than Iowa, even. He just woke up to the sun streaming in from outside and his whole body shrank from it. He’d pulled the covers up, over his head, and squeezed his eyes shut. 

What was he doing? What the fuck was he DOING? 

It felt almost like he was coming to. Like suddenly, out of fucking nowhere, all the stuff he’d been ignoring and trying to treat with club drugs and other distractions just decided they weren’t going to play along anymore. 

He was fucked. He was absolutely and completely fucked. 

And he was going to be sick. 

It was the sincere desire not to vomit all over Ned’s pristine down-filled duvet that got Ian to the bathroom. He practically threw himself into the shower, hoping that it would help him feel better. The warm water was soothing. It reminded him of all the things he’d gained in the past few weeks. 

But it was a real short trip from there to all the other shit he’d done in that time and how much he fucking hated himself. 

He hated that he’d fucked Ned. That he let it escalate to that. 

He hated that he was basically whoring himself out for a place to live. 

He hated that he was also literally whoring himself out at work, even though most of the guys did it, too, and now that he was doing it, he’d make a lot more money a lot faster. Though he had lost fucking track of what it was he needed the money for. 

And Mickey. Mickey would hate this. Mickey insisted all this shit was ok, but Ian knew he’d hate this. Mickey could never stand Ned. He might not care that much about Ian trading blowjobs for cash -- but he’d care about Ned. 

He was going to think Ian was disgusting. He wouldn’t be able to get past it. He barely seems to want Ian anyway and this is going to be the last fucking nail in the coffin. Ian wretched, thinking about it. Thinking about the look on Mickey’s face. How fucking weak this was. Weak and pathetic and trashy. Just some dumb, coked-out twink sucking guys off for money and living off his sugar daddy. It had taken THREE months for Ian to go from incoming high school senior to this. 

He’d always been efficient. 

He eventually decided he couldn’t stay on the floor of the shower ALL day, so Ian made it back to the bedroom where he burrowed beneath the covers and was grateful to fall asleep. Ned woke him up hours later and Ian shook off dinner. He was smart enough, at least, not to agitate for sex when he came to bed, hours later. 

He wasn't scheduled that first day and he called in sick the next, but he knew the clock was ticking. Ned wasn’t going to be patient with this and since part of what he was struggling with was Ned, full stop, he repeatedly told himself that he had to get his shit together. It was just… He got sloppy about the bond. He let too much time pass and he was fucking with too many substances and if he could find a way to talk to Mickey without bursting into tears, he’d do that. Because, theoretically it would help, but too much time had gone by since they’d really talked. 

Which was another thing! Why wasn’t MICKEY reaching out to him? Why was it so fucking easy for Ian to avoid him? Ian wasn’t allowed to call, Mickey kept calling at fucking weird hours when Ian didn’t have his phone. Or was asleep. Or just… wasn’t paying attention. 

He was fucking this up. He was fucking this up. He had already fucked this up. 

He picked up his phone dozens of times to text Mickey, but he put it down without typing a word every time. What would he tell Mickey if he got to talk to him? All he wanted to do was tell him to come get him. He wanted to go home. He wanted to stop all this bullshit and just GO HOME. 

But he couldn't, because that’s the ONE thing he’d sort of managed to do for Mickey. He’d managed to stay out of Terry’s path. 

So Ian slept. Ned lectured him in an offhand way about his drug use. He ordered pizza to try and cheer Ian up. But Ian didn't think he could be cheered up. He felt like he just emerged from a comatose state where someone else was running his life and now the mess is astronomical. 

He resumed having sex with Ned that night, though, because he was freaked out by the prospect of anything else. And he went back to work because he figured he has to do that, too. And even though he had listened to Ned talk about how this shit impacts the system and he knew he was struggling to get to the other side of a crash, and he understood that this was exactly how addictions formed, for the first time ever he went looking for coke instead of letting it find him. Spent money on it, which was nothing he’d done before. Did it entirely because he wasn't sure he could get through his shift without it. 

Fucking Gallaghers. 

He let the next few days blur together, just a mix of grim determination, drugs, alcohol and sleep. Tuesday morning, Ned said something about coming to the club for New Year’s Eve and Ian had shrugged. 

“They’re selling tickets. They’re pretty expensive.” 

“I imagine I can swing it,” Ned smiled. “Come on. Wouldn’t it be nice to ring in the New Year together?” 

That night, Ian saw Joey again. He was with some of his less clean-cut musician friends. People he'd met as clients. Two had face tattoos -- though whimsical to Ian’s eye and not particularly threatening. But he knew how they probably would look, out in the world. To the Magnificent Mile crowd. 

They wanted him to do shots with them, so he did. And then there was talk about where the crowd was going after the club and Ian was feeling hazy and unsteady as Joey tried to get him to absorb what he was being asked. _Wanna come with us? Wanna keep going?_

Ian heard himself invite them to Ned’s from a distance. He saw Joey cock his head like this was an unfathomable turn of events. But Ian told them about the view and the pool table, and they'd agreed. 

Ned wasn't there when he got home, because he had some dinner that night, but Ian barely registered it. He'd flipped on the stereo, tossing his coat into a corner. And he watched the scene unfold like it was a particularly uninteresting play. He'd swallowed what he was given to swallow and he'd drank what he was given to drink and at some point, something had crashed… he just didn't care. He wandered down the hall and someone had put a hand on his arm, but he kept moving. Went to the bedroom, and crawled under the covers. 

The next morning it was New Year’s Eve. The coffee table has been smashed and Ned was asking him to leave. 

Ned didn’t yell or anything. He doesn’t seem angry, even. He just told Ian he thought it was best and Ian nodded and tried to feel any type of way about it. Ned helped him gather his stuff and even added a few unwanted items of his own closet, telling Ian it was fine, he should keep these things, they looked so good on him. He'd driven Ian back to the squat and Evelyn and kissed Ian on the cheek as he got out of the car.

It was pretty cold inside. Evelyn was happy to see Ian but didn't seem surprised. Ian had numbly told her about the doctor and how he was going to sleep here again for a while. His bed was all set up and undisturbed. Evelyn really was a bizarrely good roommate. 

He'd left at six to head to the club that night, grabbing a Big Mac on the way. He’d avoided McDonald’s for months because it somehow reminded him not ONLY of Mickey, but also of Bo. 

And fuck. Bo. He’d hardly thought of Bo the last few months, but that reared up on him so suddenly that he lost his breath. 

Was there one fucking thing he’s gained in all this time that he hadn’t lost? 

His mood didn’t match the party atmosphere at the club. They’d had sparkly top hats and cherub wings. Did it make sense? Not really. But Ian let himself be strapped into the wings and took a gold feather boa, thankful that they weren’t making them dress in diapers or some other Baby New Year shit. Almost immediately, Jack had cornered him in the change room, offered him some MDMA and Ian breathed “Fuck, yes,” with a degree of relief he knew was a red flag. 

But whatever. It had hit and Ian had felt better. He'd known it was false and that all the shit was still down there someplace, but he hadn't cared. He'd needed a fucking break. 

So it was mostly a good night. He'd closed his eyes and moved to the music and ignored most other things. No lap dances, because there was low-level catering spread out where the couches usually were. He just had to stand on the riser and dance and let people shove bills into his waistband. At 11:30, Albert had grabbed him and he was sent to the back where he had been handed a case of champagne and sent out on the floor to deliver whole magnums to random attendees. The DJ was playing remixes of songs by Prince, Nelly, Madonna and Britney. At midnight, they’d cut the music as everyone counted down and then the club exploded with confetti and champagne sprayed the crowd from the catwalks as Pink’s Raise Your Glass pounded out of the speakers. Ian had accepted hugs from strangers and tried not to slip as he moved through the crowd, which was now filled with people grabbing each other to lock lips. 

It was chaos. Beautiful chaos, with the lights and the glitter and all these people who were joyous and proud and in love -- or something like it. 

They were also drunk. High as fuck. But you couldn’t deny it was a good party. 

Ian slipped out into the back and grabbed his coat. In the back alley, he lit up a cigarette and fished out his phone. 

His last text to Mickey was Christmas morning. “Everything good?” 

Mickey’s answer: “Yeah.” 

There was light, damp snow falling. Ian had decided not to think about it too much. He'd just hit call and pressed the phone to his ear. 

He got voicemail. And since the missed call would have already pissed Mickey off, he went for broke and left a message. 

“Hey,” Ian breathed, once the automatic voice has prompted him. “ I just… It’s New Year’s. And I hope you’re having fun. I’m just… watching people kiss at midnight. Thinking about you.” 

He'd cut the call. His chest felt like it was on fire, inside and out. 

Two nights later, Joey showed up again. He’d already gotten the skinny from Ian over text, but it was scant on details and Ian didn’t want to talk about it. 

“HEY,” Joey greeted him, leaning in to speak against Ian’s ear. “I FEEL BAD. I GOT YOU KICKED OUT OF YOUR PAD.” 

Ian pulled back and shook his head, enunciating to be understood over the music. “Don’t worry about it.”

“NO,” Joey grabbed his hand. “I WANNA MAKE IT UP TO YOU!.” 

Ian could only imagine. 

“I’M GOOD,” he'd assured him, making sure to toss in a coy smile. “REALLY GOOD.” 

And he was. Ian was feeling unprecedented relief since h'ed left Ned’s. He’d liked the heat and the hot showers and the roof that didn’t leak. He’d liked the after-work scotch and TV and trying shit like sushi. Ian wasn’t averse to Ned’s lifestyle. 

But he had hated the sex. He didn’t even realize how much until it wasn’t a part of his life anymore. 

“WHAT TIME ARE YOU OFF?” 

“TWO!” 

“Crash with me tonight!” Joey pressed his lips right up against Ian's ear. “Nobody else. It’s fucking minus five!” 

Ian hadn't argued. 

He was plenty tired when he left with Joey. Let himself be dragged into the car. They were halfway to the studio when Ian realized that Joey had taken his hand and was gently petting it. Which was… weird. He'd glanced over and found Joey looking at him with a flirtatious smirk. He'd patted his hand twice and then let it go. Ian had wondered if he’d hate fucking Joey. And if he didn’t, would that be because Joey is younger? Or because Joey wouldn’t be trading him for room and board? Or would it be because Ian would have been doing it for no fucking reason? Just because Joey was pretty sexy if you were into his vibe. And Ian wasn’t unwilling. 

Maybe he needed to put another person in between him and Ned, the way he’d put Ned between him and Mickey. Maybe that would make him feel less terrible. He got the sense that Joey would never make a move, though. Joey was leaving the ball in Ian’s court and for the moment, he'd decided to let it bounce away. 

Ian had never been to Joey’s place when it wasn’t crowded with people. The front half was where Joey did his work. He was exclusive enough that he didn’t need a storefront. People made appointments to see him and paid a premium for his work, which was strictly one-of-a-kind. Ian let his eyes run over all the images of Joey’s tattoos, which were pretty amazing. Lots of lines, but clean at the same time. 

“You don’t have any ink, do you?” 

Ian had turned to find Joey has snuck up on him. He'd pressed a beer into Ian’s hand. 

“No.” 

“Opposed?” 

Underage. To start. 

“No. My brother and sister have a few. I just… haven’t.” 

“Brother and sister? How many siblings do you have?” Joey looked legitimately surprised that it didn’t stop with Carl the Baby Terrorist. Ian had nodded, taking a big swig of the beer. 

“I have five brothers and sisters.” 

“Five! Holy fuck.”

“I’m right in the middle. My youngest brother’s, like, 13 years younger than me.” 

Joey nodded. Then, because he’s Joey, he asked questions. And Ian answered them. Two sisters, three brothers. Mostly raised by his big sister, who was only a few years older than him. Father's a drunk. Mother’s…” 

Ian felt tears sting his eyes. Jesus. 

“Monica’s a bunch of shit. Mostly she’s just not around.” 

“Never met anyone who calls their parents by their first names before.” 

“They’re not really my parents. We kinda raised each other.” 

“But you’re not living with them anymore.” 

“No.” 

“Still see them?”

Ian blinked. “I can’t.” 

Joey was sympathetic. “Can’t?” 

“It’s my bond. It just..” 

“It’s complicated.” 

“Yeah.” 

Joey had nodded, then paced away towards the tattoo chair by the window. “Hey, come over here. I wanna do something for you.” 

Ian had flat out downed the rest of the beer, willing himself to relax and stop thinking about all this unchangeable shit. 

“What’s that?” 

Joey gestured to the chair. “Wanna _do something_ for you.” 

Ian snorts. “I can't afford you.” 

“As a mea culpa. I shouldn’t have let you take us back to that place the other night. Let me put something on you. It’s what I do when I fuck up.” 

Ian had stared at him a moment. Then he'd glanced around at the pieces up on the walls and thought about fucking up. About body art as a way to say you’re sorry. 

“Ok.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Ian had slid into the chair and pulled off his shirt. “Ok.” 

“Great! What do you want?” Like everything Joey said, it sounded like a double entendre, but Ian was a fucking mess, so he'd just given him an answer. 

“Something for Mickey.” 

“Mickey,” Joey had stroked his hands up and down Ian’s arm and somehow it was soothing instead of unsettling. “That your soulmate?”

“Yeah.” 

“I don’t put names on people.”

“He’s my _soulmate_.” 

“It’s hacky. We can do better.” His eyes had trailed over Ian’s exposed torso, in consideration. “Tell me about him. I’ll come up with something.”

Management had NOT liked the tattoo. Or, rather, the placement. Lots of the guys had ink, but since Ian’s ran up his ribcage and was new, and since he was white as the driven snow, it looked … well, Albert had said “garish”. 

Ian did NOT think it was garish, but it was red around the edges. They pressed him to put on a sparkly tank top and stuck him behind the bar. It takes a few nights before they decide the tattoo isn't a problem anymore. 

“Ok, sailor,” Albert smirked, as Ian had appeared in his gold lame hot pants. “Make ‘em weep.” 

**Ryan**

It’s 11:30 on this unremarkable Tuesday and Ian has a headache, which is a bitch because he SHOULD be feeling fine. He let Jack give him a bump in the change room around 10 -- not even a full fucking line -- and then Oliver gave him something which, whatever it was, wasn’t MDMA. It was probably GHB. Fuck. 

He never likes that much. But that’s the game with Oliver and he fucking let it happen. Oliver weirdly seems just as delighted when Ian declines to play. Maybe that keeps it interesting. 

Ian ducks behind the bar when he gets a chance and grabs a bottle of water, which he downs in one go. Then, a half-hour later, he grabs a Redbull. That’s when he sees Ryan. 

Ryan. Fuck. About as good as seeing Oliver. Ian gestures towards a back corner because he fucking needs to put something in his system and he wants to talk to Ryan for a hot second. 

Ian can’t remember when he first met Ryan, because he blurred in with a lot of people, initially. Ryan sometimes pops up if he’s been late at the lab. On weekends he’s more likely to come in with a group of friends. His group likes to dance and they like to drink and they’re all good tippers -- but they’re also likely to end up huddled in a back corner trying to have some kind of major debate in the worst possible venue for it, before decamping to one of the bars down the street. 

Ryan likes conversation. Ian’s still trying to figure out what his deal is. But of all the people who have offered him a couch in the past two months -- Joey included -- Ryan is the best option. He feels the safest. Ian is trying real hard not to fuck it up. 

“Hey,” Ryan greets Ian with a quick hug and a friendly peck on the cheek. “Bit worried about you with the rain last night.” 

“Nah, the place I’m staying is pretty dry, and it was above freezing. So.” 

“You’re so high maintenance.” 

Ian shrugs. Ryan’s extremely non-threatening. If he hadn’t met Joey first, he’d probably worry about him more, just because how the fuck is anyone so _nice?_ But he’s started to figure something out about the _community._ It’s not that people aren’t assholes; they are. It’s not that there aren’t predators; there _really_ are. But there are a lot of people in this place who had a rough fucking time at some point in their lives and because of that, they try and pave the way for people who are younger then them. Lots of people are making families where other people would make friends. There’s a lot of drugs and a lot of sex and a lot bullshit. But there’s also a lot of kindness. And it seems to be sincere. 

Ryan is kind. And as far as Ian can tell, the only real reason for it is that he cares a lot. 

Ian ended up on Ryan’s radar because they ended up at the same party and had some conversation, but it’s one of those nights he doesn’t remember that well, so he’s sure he made a spectacular impression. But about a week later, Ryan invited him to something, and the vibe at Ryan’s was totally different than Joey’s studio or any of the other after-parties Ian had gone to. Wine and cocktails instead of hard liquor and pot. Cole Porter on the stereo. People talking softly about ‘clinical abstracts’ rather than arguing loudly about pop divas or the ending of Battlestar Galactica. Ian had been having an ok week, and since he hadn't felt like he was drowning when he got on the floor tonight, he was only light buzzed as he wandered Ryan’s apartment, looking at the numerous framed images he had up. 

“You like art?” 

Ian jumped a little and turned to find Ryan -- who was shorter than Ian, maybe closer to Mickey’s size -- had snuck up on him. 

“Um. Yeah. I think so? I mean, I don’t know shit about it.” 

“But you know what you like.” 

“It’s nice to just look at stuff sometimes. Kinda think about what the person who did it wanted you to see, I guess.” 

“That’s interesting,” Ryan frowned at the picture. “I always like to hear what people look for when they view a piece. But I’m not sure I’ve heard that one before.” 

Ian cut his eyes over to Ryan, who immediately grinned. 

“I’m sorry. Was that pretentious? It’s going to get worse. I’m the artist.” 

“The artist.” 

“The photographer. It’s a hobby.” 

“Ok. Well. Where I come from, a ‘piece’ is something that can shoot you. So.”

Ryan didn’t call that _authentic,_ and he did laugh, which is about as good a reaction as Ian could hope for. Comments like that people either found funny, or concerning, and Ian vastly preferred the people who landed in the former category. 

“You’re good,” Ian said, thinking he probably should compliment the guy. “That’s just your _hobby_?” 

“Ah, yeah,” Ryan chirped. “My day job can be stressful. I like spending my off-time doing something with lower stakes.” 

“What’s your day job?” 

Ian asked in the most off-handed way. Because it’s what he did… Make small talk, feign interest. 

“I’m a bio-engineer. I’ve been working in bond interruption. It can be tricky.” 

The hairs on the back of his neck prickled as Ian looked up. He had no poker face. Ryan immediately took a step back, holding a hand up. “Let me guess. You’re in an active bond.” 

Ian just nodded. 

“Yeah. I promise. I don’t do the procedure, to start with, and you can’t catch it by standing next to me.” 

Ian has to physically shake himself because his stomach is absolutely rolling in anxious concern. 

“We can talk about it if you’re curious,” Ryan prompted. Looking at Ian in concern, suggesting that Ian’s reaction is maybe even more extreme than whatever Ryan’s used to. “Or worried.” 

Ian had nodded, feeling mechanical. “Maybe I’ll catch you later.” 

“Yeah. Absolutely. Just--” he was at a loss. “I’ll look for you.” 

That’s really how he and Ryan ended up with this… whatever it is. Ian is guarded with him, so he doesn’t really consider Ryan a friend. He’s also… well, whatever. He’s like a client or something. Even more than Joey, where Ian also always feels this artifice of Curtis looming over everything. But Ryan is older and he seems to understand how the clubs work in a way Joey doesn’t. He expected Ian used an alias, for instance. Isn’t at all surprised by anything Ian tells him, pretty much ever. Though Ian doesn’t tell him much. He doesn’t have to. Ryan just reads the room. 

That night, Ryan had asked Ian to help him clean up in the kitchen a little and Ian had taken the hint. He was grateful not to be too chemically altered because the more he turned the idea that Ryan knew about bond severance in a front-line sort of way over in his head, the more he wanted to talk to him about it. Not because it was something Ian wanted. But because he was still worried that it might happen to him. Some day. That fear had been gnawing away at Ian for months and it was starting to fight its way to the light. 

Ian rinsed wine glasses and poured half-drunk beers down the sink while Ryan’s guests said their goodbyes. Within ten minutes, the place has emptied and the music has shifted to that old, old music about wanting someone to watch over you. 

“Ian!” Ryan clapped his hands as he came back to the kitchen. “Please. Let me. You’ve had a long night. Just keep me company.” 

Ian stepped back from the sink and allowed Ryan to hand him a Fiji water and usher him onto one of his barstools. “I just,” he felt awkward, trying to direct the conversation back when he wanted it to go. “You said--”

“My day job. Yeah. It sounds like something you know a little about?” 

Ryan kept himself busy, loading his dishwasher as he talked. Giving Ian some privacy by not looking directly at him. 

“I’ve just never talked to anyone who knew much about it.” 

“No? Well. It’s been most of my career, so far. My masters and then most of my lab work. Though lately,” Ryan drew the word out a little. “I’ve been considering a change of focus.” 

“Why? Isn’t it just starting to make money and shit?” 

Ryan chuckled. “Well. Yes. You’re hitting a nail on the head there. But one thing I’ve become painfully aware of -- when something starts to make money, that’s when it’s most likely to become dangerous.” 

Ian turned the bottle over in his hands, staring hard at the label. “How’s it dangerous?” 

“That’s a good question, and my ex used to ask me about that all the time. I fell in love with a bioethicist. Which is a terrible thing for a bio-engineer to do.” 

“Ok…”

Ryan sighed, pushing the door to the dishwasher closed. “Have you seen Jurassic Park?”

Ian snorted. “Yeah.

“So engineers -- bio-engineers. We’re the _“you spent so much trying to see if you could, you never stopped and thought about whether or not you should”_ guys. And my ex--Cal’s entire discipline is basically _“Here Is Why You Shouldn’t.”_ We met because he was specifically investigating the ethical considerations of bond interruption--In fact, his specialization was the ethics of medical bond interference within the LGBT community.” 

Ryan had picked up a tea towel to dry his hands and now settled against the counter to look at Ian directly. 

“Cal’s work examined ethics of--” Ryan broke off, frowning. “I realize this is pedantic, but I’m a scientist so I like to be exact. The media insists on talking about breaking bonds and bond severance -- we can’t do that. All we can do is disrupt the bond. Confuse it. No one has figured out how to truly BREAK one.”

Ian’s eyebrows shot up. “No shit.” 

“Never let nuance get in the way of a juicy story, huh?” Ryan rolled his wrist, smirking. “Anyway. ACTING on a bond when one or more parties are subject to intense familial pressure to deny its existence naturally involves different ethical considerations than a situation where two consenting parties want to dissolve their connection.” 

“Oh.”

“And when both parties don’t consent to an interruption -- which they are not required to do, by the way -- then things can get dangerous. Not everyone experiences being bonded in the same way.” 

“I know.” 

Ryan looked at Ian, considering. “I got into this field because I always thought soulmates were such a difficult thing. My parents are bonded. And it never seemed like they enjoyed it much.” 

Ian’s mouth twists. “Mine, either.” 

“Yes!” Ryan fully smiled, then. Like he and Ian were kindred spirits. “So maybe you understand my impulse. That it might be a good thing to introduce choice -- or at the very least, moderation -- into the proceedings.” 

“But,” Ian hedged a moment. “I mean, you _have_ a choice. Not everyone stays together. And… I’ve talked to people about how bonds aren’t always romantic--” 

“Yeah,” Ryan agreed. “But people are so _stubborn_ about that. You got the church and 1000 years of soulmate culture working against the very simple idea that, you know, not everyone has to get married and raise a family with the person they share a mark with. It seemed more expedient to just develop a system where they could opt-out. Ultimately, I think I wanted a pill. Not my field, but the idea that you could just have a break, you know? I used to wonder if a break might help my parents out.” 

Ian’s stomach rolled again. 

“Yeah,” Ryan nods at him. “You know, apart from the people I meet who are desperate to try out our services, most people in active bonds really don’t like the idea of any kind of break -- whether it’s for six weeks or the rest of their life.” 

Ian cleared his throat. “I’m kinda on a break. Not from the bond, but I haven’t seen him--” Fuck. He sincerely wonders if he’s ever cried this much in a six-month period in his entire life. It seems unlikely. “I haven’t seen him since September.” 

“Wow,” Ryan said, simply. “Long time.” 

Ian nodded. “Are you bonded?” 

“Me? No. Never really wanted to be, before Cal. And then, because he wasn't my soulmate, I didn’t want to go looking for mine. I was pretty happy with the person I’d found.” Ryan had ducked his head. “I assume you aren’t enjoying your break?” 

“No.” 

“How long have you been bonded?” 

Ian’s throat had tightened when he realized how close they were getting to two years. “A while.” 

Ryan let that sit a moment. Didn't do anything to change the subject, but didn’t comment on Ian’s distress, either. 

“It’s very common,” he took a breath, “I apologize if I’m prying but I’ve encountered a few people who have a bond that was activated when they were young... Specifically early to mid-adolescence… their bonds are extraordinarily tight. And the likelihood of severe physical effects in those cases increases exponentially. They call it the Romeo & Juliet Effect. Because families will often try to control or act upon a bond between minors in most scenarios. Now, you take that and you apply it to our community -- To the so-called Aaron Bonds…” 

“I have that,” Ian had stood up, his face heating. 

“Yeah?” 

“I always have. Never found anyone who knew what I was talking about. But I feel sick sometimes. When we aren’t together.” 

“Really?” A light almost goes on in Ryan’s eyes. “All the time? Or does it come and go?” 

“Comes and goes.” 

“And it's both of you?” 

“Ummm,” Ian hesitated. It felt personal to describe what it was like for Mickey. “For me, it’s like… Kinda like the flu. I just get lethargic. Headaches, body aches. Just no fucking energy.”

“But not for your soulmate.”

“Not exactly.”

Ryan smiled. “You’re protecting him.” 

“He’s not much of a sharer.” 

Ryan nodded. Tapped his fingers on the granite countertop. “Is there any other way you’re protecting him?” 

Ian had frowned and Ryan reached a hand out, though he did not move to touch Ian. 

“You don’t have to tell me. I just… I get a feeling you aren’t here because you have a passion for booty shorts and feather boas.” 

“It’s not a bad job.” 

“No. And maybe it keeps you out of someone’s way.” 

Ian had shrugged. Ryan had accepted this answer and asked Ian if he’d like to sleep on the pull-out couch that night. No-strings! Just... if he wanted somewhere quiet to spend the night, he was welcome. 

So that was how it had started. Ian had been wary, of course, particularly after Ned. But there was nothing even remotely sexual about how Ryan treated him. He didn’t buy Ian drinks. He didn’t flirt. He just tipped him, unusually in the least physical way possible. And sent the occasional _“you got a good place to sleep tonight?”_ text. 

So yeah. Ryan had figured out that Ian’s lifestyle was a little nomadic. Not because Ian had told him, but because Ian had asked to crash once or twice when the temperature dipped dangerously low. He used Joey, too. But Joey was more fraught. Ryan was uncomplicated. And he seemed to understand some very basic shit without Ian ever having to explain it. 

It’s weird to see Ryan tonight, on a Tuesday, so Ian asks about it. Ryan smiles, wryly. “First date. Ended early.” 

“Bad?” 

“Disastrous. Gay Republicans are a breed unto themselves. Anyway. I was down the street. I thought I’d come take in the sights.” 

“Can I get you a drink?” 

“That would be lovely.” 

**Mickey**

Ian can pinpoint where it went wrong. 

And he understands. He does. He just can’t seem to fix it, somehow. It’s like he pushed a snowball down a hill and now it’s the size of a Volkswagen and it’s threatening everything in its wake. 

For almost two years, Ian felt like he had the soulmate thing on lock. They had problems, but it was mostly shit he couldn’t control. Things between the two of them -- their connection, the way they loved each other, the fun they had together -- Ian had _known_ what he had. They loved each other and they wanted to be together. And that wasn’t confusing for anyone. 

But somehow, that rock-solid foundation he thought they had? He’d fucked that up in one conversation. Or he feels like he did. Though it was probably wrecked even before Ian had even picked up the phone. The big mistake -- the one he could not repair -- had happened a full week earlier. 

After setting fire to his former apartment, Ian and Monica had taken Tim’s fucking shitty Honda south. He’d refused to cross into Illinois, so instead, with Monica happy to just go where Ian’s whims took them, they ended up in Cedar Rapids. 

That’s where Ian’s memory gets a little cloudy. He remembers finding an all-night truck stop along the way and getting to eat a burger for the first time in almost two months. He remembers Monica spilling her sordid history with Tim, which was a fucking telenovela. She wasn't very worried about the fire OR the car theft, because she had some dirt on Tim and could make his life pretty miserable. Not shit she’d go to the cops with, but shit she could go to his family with. She’d told Ian not to worry, though worry was the farthest thing from his mind. She’d told him about how much she loved that he was with her. Because things went south for Monica on the regular, and it was _the best_ to have him there. Her partner in crime. Ian remembers laughing and her hugging him in the parking lot with so much joy. He’d thought this probably isn’t exactly what it was like to have a mother -- not for most people. But this was what it was like for HIM to have a mother. He kinda loved it. 

They’d slept in the car that night. The next morning, they’d explored the city. Ian hadn’t travelled much. Not even to neighbouring states. He and Monica had ended up at a small art museum and spent a few hours wandering around. Ian noticed that a few people gave them weird looks, though he couldn’t figure out why. He had _loved_ the museum. He loved art, it turned out. It wasn’t something he’d thought about much before, but he was suddenly really into it. Maybe he’d had a great awakening. Maybe six weeks in Wisconsin were like his 40 days in the desert or whatever. He had seen the face of boredom and it was not brightly painted statues of people’s heads. 

After that, they’d walked. They had walked for hours. They eventually ended up in a park around dusk and he and Monica played on the swings and talked for hours. He felt like he had so much to tell her and his mouth almost couldn’t keep up with the things he wanted to say and she received every thought he uttered with total enthusiasm. They’d had waffles for dinner. He remembers that. Some diner that did all-day breakfast. And then, having abandoned the car in a random parking lot, they had ended up checking into a cheap hotel after Monica talked the guy into letting them pay cash in advance. They’d gone to their room and collapsed. Ian was feeling a little weird -- coughing a lot -- and he’d fallen asleep while they were watching Halloween on AMC. 

After that, Ian doesn’t remember much. He knows he was sick. Horribly sick. Coughing so much his diaphragm hurt, and unable to sleep for more than a few hours at a time. He vaguely recalls Monica giving him shit like Nyquil and the whole lot of nothing it did for him. He also remembers standing at the sink, bent and heaving, feeling about the worst he ever had in his life. He vaguely remembers Monica talking at him. Physically dragging him out of bed and forcing him into sweats. Even putting on his shoes. He remembers the clinic, but not how they got there. He remembers Monica telling the doctor they can’t afford X-rays OR antibiotics, and the doctor coming back in with a handful of samples to replace the z-pack and get Ian on an inhaler. 

He doesn’t know what day that happened on. The first day he started to feel human again -- awake, really -- his diaphragm still hurt like a bitch and his extremities were shaky and weak. He’d rolled over to find himself in the same motel room and an empty blister package on his nightstand. He was still coughing, but it didn’t feel life-threatening anymore. He did feel exhausted, though. 

And he wanted Mickey. 

Just instantly, like coming out of his SKIN, he wanted Mickey. 

Monica told him later that it wasn’t a sudden revelation. He’d been talking about Mickey for days and days. She’d offered to call him but -- she couldn’t find Ian’s phone. She said he’d been nearly inconsolable, but there was nothing she could _do._ She couldn’t just 411 the guy who wanted to murder her SON, could she? And Ian wasn't exactly coherent. So Monica didn’t do anything. And now it was eight days since they’d left Wisconsin. 

Eight DAYS. 

Holy fuck. 

“I need my phone,” 

“I don’t think you have it sweetie.” 

He HAD to have it. “I need my phone.” 

“Ian, baby--” 

He’d tried to get up and quickly found that it was a non-starter, dropping back onto the bed and swearing. “Monica. Please.” 

“It’s ok, baby! It’s ok,” Monica had soothed. “You just settle down. I’ll bring you your bag.” 

A quick attempt to dig through the top-loading army duffle proved fruitless. He took as deep a breath as he could manage -- which wasn’t much -- and told himself to calm the fuck down. He’d sat back against the headboard, the bag between his legs, and had gone through its entire contents. Took absolutely everything out, checked pockets, turned things inside out, and then folded them carefully as he tried to contain the rising panic. It had to be here. It HAD to be here… 

It wasn’t. The one time in his entire life his mother was completely fucking right about something. 

“Where’s the car?” 

“Ian, we left it over a week ago. It’s gone.” 

Fuck. FUCK. What in his life was more important than that fucking phone? How the FUCK was it gone?

He picked up the heavy canvas bag and shook it. There was still something in it. 

And Ian remembered what it was. At the very bottom of the bag, there was a zippered pocket. He knew what he’d stashed in there. 

“Um. Monica?” 

“Yeah, baby?” 

From the detritus around the room, Ian could only assume he’d been surviving on granola bars and water. 

“I think I’m actually hungry.” 

Monica’s eyes had lit up. She’d enthusiastically told him she was going to run out and get him something to eat. 

“And coffee?” 

“And coffee! I’ll be RIGHT back.” 

He waited for her to leave before opening the pocket with shaking hands and pulling out the roll of bills Mickey had given him, his own stash of cash, and the burner phone. 

Thank fuck. Thank fucking God his soulmate could anticipate how epically things could go wrong. He pulled out the phone and the cheap, lightweight charger and pressed the power button. He only had maybe half an hour until Monica came back (unless she just vanished for three days, which was certainly a possibility) and he really wanted to talk to Mickey alone. 

The phone lit up, apparently charged before Mickey had given it to him. And his number was programmed into it, too. Ian's eyes were already brimming with tears as the phone connected and started to ring. 

“Hello?”

It was Mickey. Ian laughed in relief. Thank fuck. Thank FUCKING Christ.

“Hey, Mick.” 

“What the FUCK, Gallagher!” 

He could hear the relief in Mickey’s voice, too. “Hey,” he repeated, giddy. “Hey.” 

“Where the fuck ARE you?” 

“I’m in--”

“Don’t TELL me! Jesus.” 

“Ok,” Ian was shaking and laughing and crying all at once. This was what passed for happy right now. This was fucking amazing. “Ok, I won’t. I just. Fuck. I lost my phone.” 

“Fucking obviously.” 

“And I had to leave where I was staying, so. I just.” His brain was tripping over itself. He couldn’t pick a direction to go in. “Fuck. I’m sorry. I just got --” 

“I gave you the fucking burner.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s what I'm calling on.” 

“It’s been a WEEK.” 

“I know.” 

“A fucking WEEK, Ian.” 

Ian nodded, which was useless, but his throat felt raw, and he was suddenly so tired. He rolled over onto his side and curled up, the phone still pressed to his ear. “I know. I know. I’m sorry. I was sick.” 

“Sick?” 

“Yeah. Just really…” He closed his eyes. Too sick to even remember how sick he was. “Really sick.” 

“Too sick to call?” 

“Yeah.” He breathes in and out, carefully. Then he tries it again. It feels so good to talk to Mickey. Just beyond anything. So, so fucking good… 

“Must have been pretty fucking sick.” 

“Yeah,” Ian confirmed. He had less than no interest in talking about that. “What about you? How have you been?” 

“How have I fucking been? Let’s see. My fucking soulmate vanished off the face of the earth for a whole fucking week and I had no idea where or how he was. How do you THINK I’ve been?” 

Angry. Yeah. Ok. “I’m sorry, Mick.” 

“Sorry.” 

“Yeah. Sorry. I was sick. I didn’t know --” 

“Like in the HOSPITAL sick?” 

“No.” 

“Just no-fucking-phone-calls sick.” 

Ian’s heart was picking up speed. He'd known Mickey would be freaked out. The anger wasn’t a surprise, but he was also struggling to explain. He didn't know why it took him eight days to get his shit together. He just didn't. “Didn’t go to the hospital. Maybe I should have. I don’t know.” 

There was a long silence on the line. 

“I’m sorry--” 

“Don’t.” 

Ian pressed his lips together. He drew his knees up closer to his chest. He didn't know what he could say if he couldn't explain and he couldn't apologize. And he couldn't see Mickey. He couldn't touch him. He just had to wait. 

“Thought you were fucking dead,” Mickey managed, finally. 

He had to stop himself from apologizing again. “I know. I… I get that.” 

“You alone?” 

“Right now? Yeah.” 

“While you were sick.” 

Mickey never wanted the fucking details. So he took a moment to formulate the response. “No.” 

He waited out another long, angry break in the conversation. 

“You’re ok? Now?” 

“Yeah. Getting better, I think.” There were two more sample boxes on the table and Ian gave them a curious shake. “I think I have two days of pills left.” 

“So you went to a doctor.” 

“Yeah.” 

Ian rolled onto his back and he endured another long, loaded pause. 

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he ventured, finally. 

“Nothing.” 

“I can tell the story--” 

“I don’t WANT the story. Ian. I just want you to be fucking safe.” 

Ian threw his arm over his eyes and tried to steady himself. He was on the verge of something. He could feel it building in his chest. Just a desperate, awful, plea. “I want to see you.” 

“Fuck. Ian.” 

“Just for a minute,” he manages to force the words out of his painfully tight throat. 

“Come on.” 

“I’m serious.” 

“I can’t just take off, Ian. It’s the opposite of fucking safe.” 

Ian sat up, feeling a rush of how essential this was. He wanted to see Mickey. He was fucking falling apart without him. “I could GET to Chicago.” 

“Ian! Fuck. No.” 

“Just. Once. Just one time. It can be fast. I just feel like… I feel like I need it.” 

“Are you out of your fucking MIND?” 

“I don’t think I can do this anymore. I don’t… I don’t feel right, Mickey.” Because Mickey was right. How was it even possible that Ian was so sick he lost count of the days? Something had to be wrong with him and it was fucking terrifying to consider. But Mickey could help. Mickey could ground him. 

“You fucking have to.” 

“Please.” His voice fucking broke. He was begging. He was actually begging. 

“Ian.” 

He let the phone drop as a sob ripped out of him. Bent forward, pressing his head to his knees, feeling the full weight of his fear and his visceral need for Mickey just take over. It took no time, though, for the coughing to start and it quickly overwhelmed his complete emotional collapse. His whole body hurt. Muscles in his back and under his ribs were screaming. He grabbed a stack of napkins off the nightstand and pressed them to his mouth as his body let him know in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t in charge right now. When the attack finally subsided, Ian dropped back onto the bed, completely spent, and fished around in the bedsheets for the phone. 

“Sorry.” 

“Jesus Christ.” 

“Sick.” 

“Yeah, I got that.” 

He’d closed his eyes. Taken a shaky breath and tried to steel himself. “I know you can’t.” 

_Won’t._

“It’d fucking kill me if something happened to you, Ian.” 

And he could hear the truth of that in Mickey’s voice. Hear that Mickey had been worried he was experiencing his worst nightmare. 

And it was like that for Ian, too. He wasn’t as scared of Terry coming for him as he probably should be. But that was because the idea of losing Mickey -- and in some very real ways he was already losing Mickey -- felt so much worse. He’d blinked away fresh tears. 

“It’s ok,” he managed, finally. “I know it’s stupid.” 

“Yeah,” Mickey was relieved. Like Ian was seeing the light, fucking finally. “Yeah. We can’t -- I’ll figure something else out. But we can’t do that.” 

The coughing fit had taken it out of Ian to an almost unreal degree, so he told Mickey he had to go and Mickey had readily let him. He’d passed out immediately and Monica had to wake him up when she returned with a diner breakfast and coffee. Ian had eaten it, grimly, staring into space, and trying to imagine the next few months. He didn’t know what was coming next, but he knew one thing: he wasn’t going to be able to rely on Mickey to keep himself going. 

He hadn’t meant that in a punitive way. He understood what Mickey was saying. He knew why his pleas had fallen on deaf ears. Honestly, he hadn’t even known how desperately he was to just see Mickey until the conversation had turned so angry. He just felt like he couldn’t communicate. Nothing he was going to say was ever going to compare to them feeling each other through the bond. So Mickey was never going to know how much Ian needed him right now and Ian wasn’t going to understand how upset Mickey was. And they’d just have to live like that. 

It shouldn't have been such a big ask. But nothing with him and Mickey had been the same after that. Mickey still didn’t want Ian to call, but he didn’t call as much as he had. Sometimes Ian would miss calls because Mickey never wanted to know shit about his life, so he didn’t know Ian’s work hours. It probably should have been a gradual drift to get them to where they were now, but Ian always thought about it as if they had just fallen off a cliff. He’d lost his phone. And they’d never recovered. 

Ian never told Mickey he’d come back to Chicago and he never told him that he’d stayed. He shouldn’t have come, and since Monica has left, he shouldn't stay. But he has this idea in his head, that if he leaves, he won’t ever be happy again. Even though he is not particularly happy right now. He just doesn’t think that being farther away from Mickey will help. 

Ian usually doesn’t think of Mickey while he’s at work. Not if he can help it. When he does, he pushes it away. He can blame the fact that he’s taken a downer, on a night when he needed anything but, for the morose way he’s replaying this shit. Thankfully he doesn’t have to think much at work on nights like this and it’s nearly 1 AM. He’ll be off soon enough. 

He’s moving through a series of body rolls when he spots him. He doesn’t even react, because the truth is, Ian _thinks_ he sees him a lot. So when he turns to follow what he’s caught out of the corner of his eye and it’s _actually_ Mickey his brain doesn’t know what to do with it. His body keeps moving, going through the motions, and Ian thinks “Well. I’ve finally lost it.” 

Then Mickey puts up a hand and waves. Awkwardly. Ian finally stops moving. He just stops and stares and watches as Mickey shifts his weight, eyes darting around the room. Then he shoves his hands in his back pockets and directs his gaze back to Ian. Bites his bottom lip and raises his eyebrows, like _“And? Are you coming?”_

What the fuck?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warning:** I don’t know that this is really something to do here, but I do know people care about this -- Ian is having sexual contact with people who aren’t Mickey in this chapter. I don’t go into any detail about it because the mechanics don’t matter to either Ian or the story.
> 
> This chapter is also a bit non-linear, so I worry it’s confusing for people. If it is -- my apologies, and here’s the rundown: Evelyn, Jack and Oliver are all about Ian’s life in the here and now -- which is February 2014. Ned’s section covers events from November through to January. Joey’s part is happening from December through January. Ryan turned up in January, through to the present. Mickey is taking us all the way back to November and then letting us know a bit about how things have gone the whole time Ian has been in Iowa and Chicago.
> 
>  **Notes:** Season four! Season four means they finally have smartphones. I cannot tell you how happy I am to leave behind the world of T9 texting. Almost as glad as I was in real life. 
> 
> Guys, I have looked up the hours of gay clubs in Chicago and I would LOVE to know what Ian “working a double” actually is. I have decided his club has six-hour shifts and there are two of them. If you work the whole thing, they’ll call that a double. That’s my invention because nothing else makes sense. So working a double would be coming in at 7, an hour before the club opens and then leaving at 4 when it closes. Which is a long time to Go-Go Boy, really -- but it’s only 9 hours. 
> 
> I just want to make it clear that, timing-wise, Karen has 100% been hit by the car by the time Mandy meets up with Ian. In the OG timeline, Mandy goes to see Ian right around when Mickey would have married Svetlana. You can assume Ian knows about Karen’s accident. He just puts it in the basement of his priorities. Likewise, Fiona will have gone to see Ned around the time she sends Ian the check-up text, but Ned doesn’t tell Fiona about Ian, or Ian about Fiona. 
> 
> I also want to note that my brain is preoccupied with why Lip isn’t texting Ian, but Lip isn’t texting Ian in canon, either. Fiona's the only one who ever talks about hearing from Ian and given that she is the only one who knows what is actually going on here (sorry Lip!) I decided to keep that the same. She’s having slightly more contact than she did in canon, but that’s mostly because Ian isn’t in the army, and he’s gone longer. We will hear from Lip later. 
> 
> I have visited the very last part of my roach experience upon Ian in this chapter. Roaches can make you sick. It’s the worst. 
> 
> A LOT is happening to Ian between September and February. But woof. If you look at the show? Ian leaves the last day of school before winter break and is back when there’s full snow in Chicago for weeks. He can’t be gone that long but manages to attend basic training, go AWOL and then get pretty heavily established in Boystown. At BEST that takes two months. In this story, he’s gone for five. 
> 
> Finally - I am so sorry this chapter took so long. If you follow me on Tumblr you probably saw that I threw the whole thing out at one point and started again. It was just a whole lot of work -- but one of the reasons it was so much work, is that the other chapter was being partly written in tandem. I really hope not to have another gap like this. I promise I am working pretty steadily! Anyway, I do respect that you give this your time and attention and deeply appreciate it. Thank you all. 
> 
> **Next: Chapter 9: Missing** Mickey’s side of the last four months, and what it feels like when your soulmate vanishes and then doesn’t entirely come back.


	10. Chapter Nine: Missing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey figures out what he can and cannot handle when it comes to being separated from his soulmate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: First: I am very sorry this took three whole months. I will try very hard to prevent that in the future, but I sadly tried very hard to prevent it THIS time, so. I can only say I will continue to do my best! 
> 
> Because it’s been a while, a reminder that this chapter covers the same time period of the last chapter, but from Mickey’s POV. If you want a quick refresher, I recommend just skimming the “Mickey” part of the last chapter -- but there are lots and lots of callbacks, so if you have the inclination, you can take a quick look at their phone conversations and texts. But you can, of course, just dive right in. 
> 
> Very grateful for everyone who is still reading. Again: My apologies. I hope you enjoy the result of the effort! 
> 
> CW: This is 30k words of Mickey Milkovich being put through it. If you are not feeling up to that, I understand. Nothing happens that isn’t in the tag. The new added for this tag for this chapter is anxiety. A more detailed warning is at the end of the chapter.

He looks beautiful. 

That’s not news, but it still hits Mickey like a freight train. Ian is beautiful. 

And in Chicago. He’s officially fucking pissed about that. Or he would be if his brain would move on from the fact that Ian is _beautiful_. 

And now Ian is looking at him. Mickey feels the kick to his gut and he smiles. With relief and love and a whole lot of gratitude. Because yes, it’s fucked that Ian is here, but on the other hand, Ian is HERE. Ian is across the room.  
  
Ian does not smile back. Mickey realizes -- he’s fucking out of practice -- that he’s not reading shock. Or not _only_ shock. He’s reading fear. 

_What the fuck?_

***

**November**

***

Ian not answering his phone fucking breaks something in Mickey. 

It’s around 6:30 when he tries to call Ian back and immediately and instinctively knows something has gone profoundly wrong. He tries to reason with himself. People miss fucking phone calls. They go places, they take showers, they nap. There are a million fucking things that could happen to explain one missed phone call.  
  
One missed phone call after Ian had called _him_. 

Mickey can’t make himself buy it. Something happened. Something happened and Ian isn’t ok and that is the only possible explanation that his brain will entertain. 

“Would you stop your fucking fidgetting? Jesus Christ.” 

Mickey glances across the room at his father, barely covering how startled he is to be reminded he isn’t alone. He folds his arms across his chest and holds his father’s gaze as steadily as he is able. Terry sneers and turns to Uncle Joe.  
  
“He’s the squirreliest fucking kid. Always fucking biting at his nails or chewing at his lip like the roof’s about to come down on him. Got the best aim of all of ‘em, though. Go fucking figure.” 

He has to stand there, not moving, for another 45 minutes until they finally pack up and leave. And then he has to put up with a slow drive across rainy Friday night traffic. It’s after 8:00 when he finally gets home and makes a beeline to his room. He forgets to act cool and unbothered. He forgets to pretend that he doesn’t have shit to get upset about. Instead, he slams the door shut, sits down on his bed, and takes several steading breaths before calling Ian again.  
  
He’s going to answer. He’ll answer and it’ll turn out the call was a pocket dial and he’ll make fun of Mickey and Mickey will tell him to fuck off and then they’ll talk about his fucking dog or the god damn cockroaches or whatever other thing Ian’s consumed with today. 

“MotherFUCKER,” Mickey breathes when the voicemail picks up. 

He tries a lot of things after that. He drags Iggy out of his room and they smoke up together and watch Ice Road Truckers. He starts drinking when the pot doesn’t fog his brain enough, but he has an unprecedented lack of focus and it hurts his momentum. No matter how hard he tries to resist the urge, he keeps sneaking back to his room to hit redial. 

At some point, it occurs to him that Ian will see all the missed calls. And that he’ll call. He’ll be freaked out and he’ll call. 

Except he won’t, because something has fucking happened. 

Iggy begs off around one in the morning and vanishes into his room. His dad passed out hours ago. Mickey walks the floor and runs scenarios while drinking beer like it’s water. 

If he’d run out of minutes, the phone wouldn’t ring. If the phone was off, the phone wouldn’t ring. Out of area, it wouldn’t ring. If the phone was broken… Might ring. Possible. And this is all he can speculate on because the only other things he knows about are cockroaches and the dog. Maybe the dog ate the phone?  
  
No. Because Ian also has that burner he gave him. Mickey put his number in it and now he’s fucking losing his mind because he never put it in his own phone. He doesn’t even have IAN in his phone. Just the number in his call log. 

Two hours later, Mickey is no drunker, and no closer to sleep -- and he wants to fucking sleep. Eight hours of unconsciousness is eight hours of not thinking about this and eight hours for Ian to find his phone and fucking call Mickey to GROVEL. But he can’t get his brain to shut up. Instead, he paces and dials and paces and dials and it rings and rings and fucking rings and he is going to DESTROY something. 

His brain is boiling in its skull when he hammers on Mandy’s bedroom door. 

“What the FUCK, Mickey?” she groans, clearly having been pulled from sleep at three AM to attend to his complete and total emotional breakdown.  
  
“You heard from Ian?” 

“Mickey! Shhh!” Mandy drags him into her room, looking scandalized. “Dad’s across the fucking hall!” 

Mickey shakes his head. “Have you?” 

“No! Of course not.” 

Mickey snatches her phone off her nightstand and thrusts it into her hands. “Try calling him.”  
  
“He won’t answer.”  
  
“I don’t fucking care -- Try!” 

“Mickey. He won’t ANSWER. He saves his minutes for you. I only get texts.” 

Mickey wants to sit down on the floor and just fucking weep. _Saves his minutes for you._ What the FUCK is going on? If Ian saves his minutes for Mickey, then why was he so fucking disinterested the last time they talked? And where has he gone NOW? 

“Mandy, I swear to fucking God--”

“Ok!” Mandy relents, flipping her phone open. “Chill. Fuck’s sake.”  
  
He watches her open her contacts and press the button to call Ian. Fidgets, rubbing his thumb anxiously against his index finger. If Ian picks up it will fucking kill him. If Ian doesn’t, he’s going to fucking die. Not _knowing_ will give him an aneurysm. He will stroke out right here in his sister’s bedroom. 

“He’s not picking up,” Mandy looks at him, shaking her head. “I told you--” 

Mickey snatches the phone from her and presses it to his ear just in time to hear the voicemail start. “Fuck,” he mutters, immediately following it with an escalating “Fuck, fuck, FUCK!” 

“Mickey, STOP it!” Mandy hisses at him again. She grabs at his hand, but Mickey pushes her off.  
  
“What the fuck do I do?” he’s talking mostly to himself as he starts to pace again. “What the fuck do I fucking do?” 

“I… I don’t know, Mick.” 

“Do you know where he is?” Mickey seizes on this idea. Mandy can’t produce Ian by phone, but maybe she can tell Mickey where to look.

“No,” Mandy says, helplessly. “He wouldn’t tell me anything like that. I told you -- It’s just text. Short and not-that-sweet.” 

“What about Lip?” he prompts. “Call Lip!” 

Mandy’s face hardens. “It’s the middle of the god damn night, you fucking lunatic.” 

Mickey shakes his head and continues pacing. “I can’t, Mandy. I can’t. I fucking can’t.” 

Not even HE knows what he’s talking about anymore and Mandy swears. “I can’t fucking believe this,” she mutters, crossing to her closet. Less than a minute later she’s grabbing her phone from his grip and thrusting a jelly jar at him. He looks down. Fucking brandy again. He downs it in a gulp. Mandy just sighs and pours again, then points her finger at him. “Stay.” 

Fucking ordering him around like a dog. Mickey shrugs because he finally feels maybe a little bit lightheaded and that’s progress. 

“Iggy!” He can hear his sister push into their brother’s room down the hall. “Do you have any benzos?”  
  
Mickey wanders to the hallway in time to hear Iggy’s muffled reply. 

“It’s not 1972 anymore, so fucking no.” 

“Iggy, come on. It’s for Mickey, ok?”  
  
“I got a xanny he can have.”  
  
“Holy fuck, Ig. What do you think benzos ARE?” Mandy vanishes into their brother’s room and emerges a few seconds later clutching a little white pill. “Ok. Maybe you should just take half to start--”

“Fuck that,” Mickey downs the pill with a swig of the brandy. He’s going to kill Ian. He’s going to kill him. He is going to _kill_ that motherfucker for making him feel like this. And if something has happened to Ian, he will go FULL Neeson on whoever got between him and his soulmate. He will take his specific set of skills and he will acquire new ones and he will find this person and he will _take them apart._

Mandy is talking at Mickey but his brain has finished absorbing words so he wanders back to his room, where he crawls into his bed and determinedly drinks the rest of his jelly jar of brandy. Once the Xanax starts to work, and the adrenaline abandons him, Mickey’s finally able to pass out. He wakes up only a few hours later, though. Sun barely peeking up over the horizon. He feels a wave of heavy and desperate grief wash over him before he fully remembers what he’s so upset about. Then he lunges for his phone. 

There’s nothing. 

No text messages, no missed calls, just fucking nothing. And for five days, Mickey just lives like that. Lives, while every fibre of his being is screaming in agony. While his pulse races and his mind spins. He’s expected to do shit. He’s expected to act like he’s ok. Mandy does her best to cover for him and even Iggy starts to pick up the slack. A few times he finds himself moving through space with Iggy’s hand on his shoulder. Pushing him forward while he walks like a fucking zombie through whatever bullshit they’re supposed to be doing. He almost wants to tell Iggy what’s wrong. There is a non-zero part of him that wants to look over at his older brother and just say “I lost him.”  
  
Because he has. He has literally lost Ian. He doesn’t know how the fuck to find him. 

On the second day, the phone starts cutting straight to voicemail. Mickey’s stomach drops to his feet and stays there. He can barely keep food down. Mandy keeps shoving fucking toast at him. He half expects her to start chewing his food for him like he's a baby bird. He can’t argue that much, though. He’s a wreck. He has never felt pain like this. Just never. And his fucking _mother_ is dead. 

And maybe that’s why he’s such a needy bitch. Maybe the shit parents and never feeling like he was enough to stick around for -- all that bad childhood bullshit? Maybe that’s why three days of not hearing from his soulmate has him howling into his pillow at night. But it’s bad. Whatever the reason. This has gotten on top of him like he didn’t even know was possible. 

Whenever he has a fucking minute to himself, he dials Ian’s number. It becomes a habit after a few days. Something he does without thinking, like running his tongue over a loose tooth. Ian doesn’t even have this own voice on his voicemail -- just the automatic number read-back -- so there’s nothing in it for him, but he can’t make himself stop. Calling this number is the only thing he has. He’s given up on the idea that something will come of it. 

So, on Thursday afternoon when he idly hits the call button mid-cigarette and it fucking _rings_ , Mickey nearly drops the phone in shock. What the fuck. What the _fuck_? 

“Hello?” 

What the FUCK! 

Mickey sits up from his prone position on his bed and looks around the room, half expecting someone to jump out at him. Some kind of Freddy Kruger nightmare shit. 

“Uh. Hi.” 

“Hello! This is Amy. Who’s this?”  
  
Who the fuck is AMY?

“I’m… I’m not--” His brain, exhausted and strung out, is tripping over itself. “I think I called the wrong…”  
  
He CAN’T have the wrong number. He’s calling from his phone log. 

“Oh, probably not! I’m sorry. I don’t know the best way to answer this phone. I guess I was hoping it was the owner! My kids found it in the backseat of the car, but we didn’t have a charger. I gotta say, I was just going to ignore it, but then I realized it probably belonged to that kid and I should try and get it back to him, so we picked something up at Best Buy--” 

“What _kid_ ?”  
  
“It’s ridiculous, but would you believe my husband never got his name. Let me ask-- Tom?” She seems to put the phone down but doesn’t try to muffle it at all, so Mickey clearly hears her discuss this “kid’ with her husband. _Clean cut. Redhead._

“My husband says he has red hair. Is he tall, Tom? -- Ok, six feet, athletic --”  
  
“Ian,” Mickey exhales. All this fucking detail, like he’s drawing a police sketch. “His name is Ian.” 

“Oh. Well, that feels like a good name for a redhead. Ian.”  
  
“How do you know Ian?” 

“Oh! We don’t. I just -- He found our dog.”  
  
“Wait. You mean Bo?” 

“Wiggles! Our Golden Doodle? He was lost for weeks and then one day _Ian_ phoned and brought him back to us! I was sorry I didn’t get to meet him -- he was so nice on the phone. But I didn’t want to confuse the kids, just in case, and --” 

“Do you know where he fucking is?” 

There’s a silence. Mickey is not ‘ _good on the phone’_ and it’s a problem. 

“Well,” he can hear her hesitation. “My husband gave him a ride home, but no. Nothing beyond that. He must have left his phone in the car. He would have had our number -- or would have known how to get it from our Lost Dog signs. But he hasn’t come back.”  
  
“How many days ago was this?” 

“Oh. It was a Friday. Yeah. So five days?” 

Five days. The same day Ian called him and Mickey couldn’t pick up. This was about the dog. It was about the fucking _dog_. Mickey can feel it now. He can guess every step of it. Mickey was worried he was hurt or something fucking awful had happened to him and he was trying to call for help. But that wasn’t it. He was upset. Upset enough to break the rules and call Mickey because he wanted comfort. 

“Ok. If he comes back for the phone, tell him Mickey is feeling fucking homicidal, alright?” 

“Oh. Um.” 

“He’ll get it.” He’s about to hang up when he realizes he hasn’t gotten the most essential piece of information. “Oh. Where are you?” 

“Um. Ah.” 

Probably should have asked that before referencing murder. Fucking fine. 

“Not _your_ address. Look, Ian…” He takes a deep breath. “I’m fucking frustrated because I haven’t been able to reach him for almost a week. I _guess_ because he lost the phone. You lost your dog, right? Well, I’ve lost a person.” She still doesn’t say anything. Mickey’s heart picks up speed. He’s gotta get SOMETHING from this lady. Just _some_ fucking thing. “Please,” he tries, finally. “I’m fucking losing it.” 

He holds his breath, but there must have been just enough desperation in his voice because she exhales and makes a little sound of concern. 

“We’re in Dodge County. A little bit nearer Madison than Milwaukee. Does that help?” 

Fucking WISCONSIN? Leave it to Gallagher to run away and not even put a whole state between himself and Chicago. What was wrong with Ohio? Minnesota? What the fuck was he doing in Wisconsin? 

“Yeah,” Mickey tries to make his voice as even and reasonable as possible. “Yeah. Ok. Um…” He rubs his forehead. Fuck it. “Does your husband remember where he dropped him off?” 

****

Three hours later, Mickey is drinking beer and pacing. He needs a plan. Because he finally _knows_ something. Ian lost his phone. Simple fucking answer to the questions that have been plaguing him. Now he just has to figure out why Ian didn’t use the burner Mickey explicitly gave him in case he _lost his fucking phone._

It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t fucking matter. If something happened to the phone, maybe something happened to the burner. Mickey just has to wait this out. He can do that. He’s not going to go running after Ian like some bitch. He can fucking wait. It’s fine. 

****

“Is there a single fucking reason why we gotta be out here?” 

“You didn’t have to come.” 

“You’re taking off with the car for the whole fucking day, and I need it tonight, so yeah I had to fucking come.” Iggy grouses. “You’ve been acting like a fucking weirdo all week. How’m I supposed to know you’re even coming back?”  
  
“Shut up and eat your fries,” Mickey mutters. He’s done a lot of road trips with Iggy and it is never not like having a goddamn toddler with him. Basic stupid shit like suddenly discovering he’s hungry or needs to take a piss 15 minutes down the road. He agreed to stop at the fucking McDonalds only because they’ve made good time, cutting down a two-hour drive to nearly 90 minutes. And he’ll give this to his brother: he doesn’t fucking complain about his driving. 

“Sure you don’t want any?” 

“I’m fucking fine.” 

Iggy snorts.

“Ok, fuck you, and make yourself useful,” Mickey lets himself raise his voice because Iggy is always pretty great at being available to be yelled at. “Blue bungalow. Black mailbox.” 

“They’re all fucking black mailboxes,” 

“So LOOK FOR THE BLUE HOUSE!”  
  
“OKAY!” 

“Holy fuck,” Mickey mutters and lets them fall into silence, darting his eyes back and forth along the road as they head north. There is nothing the fuck out here. No wonder Ian had been bored. 

“Blue!” Iggy gestures wildly after about five minutes. “Blue, blue, blue, blue!” 

“Fuck!” Mickey hits the breaks, then does a three-point turn, doubling back. The house is NOT fucking blue. It’s mostly flagstones and yellow stucco. But at the side is an _airlock_ and that is blue. Iggy was always good at this punch buggy bullshit. Mickey’s heart is in his throat as he turns down the drive, slowly approaching the house. There are a couple of cars, one up on blocks and… fuck. He comes to a stop and throws the car into park. 

“What the fuck are we doing here?” Iggy asks as if the question has only just occurred to him. Mickey doesn’t answer. Just pushes open the door and gets out of the car. 

There’s a fucking burned-out building up past the main house. Brick and wood, with the remains of a metal staircase at the side. It looks like a recent turn of events. There’s a dumpster out front and yellow caution tape up. Mickey stares at it and starts to desperately hope he’s in the wrong fucking place.

“Can I help ya?”

He spins around to see a big dude with a greying beard, a Green Bay baseball cap and a thick plaid hunting jacket coming out of the house. Mickey just shakes his head. He has no fucking line for this. His entire plan here was just “ _go and see if Ian is there_ ” and he has no idea how to deal with a random Wisconite. 

“I…” fuck. “I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m in the right place.” 

“You looking for Tim?” 

_Who the fuck is TIM?_

Mickey just shakes his head. “No. No, I’m looking for Ian.” 

The man frowns. “No Ians here, I don’t think. This is my mother’s place. Nephew was living here until some real recent events,” he gestures towards the charred remains. “We decided it was time for him to move on.” 

Mickey nods and glances back over his shoulder. “Looks bad.”  
  
“Ah. Probably the best-case scenario, to be honest.” 

God damn, these people are chatty. Mickey can’t ask the questions he most wants to, though. Like, _hey -- you know if Tim was into teenage boys?_ \-- so he searches for another and comes up with a fucking important one. “Anyone get hurt?” 

“Nah. Nephew’s a stone-cold idiot. He either pissed off the wrong people or he fucked up and did it himself. Equal probability, to be honest. He don’t hold the insurance, thank Christ,” he nods towards Mickey. “Now _those_ are some tattoos you got there, son.”  
  
Mickey blinks, then looks down at his hands, which have both clenched into fists. 

“Yeah. Yeah, look. You sure this guy Tim was out here alone?” 

“Ah, no. Had a girlfriend. Hot mess of a woman. Sweet, though. Lotta fun. Seems to have had enough of him, though.”  
  
Mickey swallows. “Her name isn’t Monica, is it?” 

Green Bay’s face brightens. “Now, how’d you know that?” 

***

Ok. So that could have been worse. Drive two hours to find out where Ian used to be and figure out he’s with his fucking mother. Mickey can’t say he feels relieved, but he feels something other than absolute crushing terror. And he didn’t even have to kill the engine. 

When he merges onto the I-90 Iggy sits up. “Wait. That’s it? We’re just going fucking home?” 

“Guess so.” 

He keeps his eyes focused on the road while his brother stares at him. Gives no indication that there’s anything to even explain. Eventually, Iggy flops back in his seat. 

“What the fuck is UP with you, man?”

“We’ll be home by three. You’re fucking welcome.” 

***

When they get home -- at 2:45, fuck you very much -- Mickey heads straight for the fridge, pulls out a bottle of Old Style and starts drinking. He’s not sure what he’s feeling but he’s pretty determined not to spend a lot of time with it. 

Also, he’s fucking hungry. Hungry and there’s nothing in the goddamn house. 

“Hey, Ig! You wanna split a pizza?” 

“You got money?” Iggy yells from where he’s crashed in the living room. 

“Yeah, I got fucking money,” Mickey grouses, picking up his phone. This is fine. He’ll order a pizza, get a beer buzz going and just work on convincing himself that he got good news today. That finding out anything is better than the nightmare speculation he’s been doing. 

“Where the fuck were you?” 

Mickey glances towards Terry, who has just appeared in the doorway. He shrugs. 

“Out.”  
  
“Don’t fucking give me that, kid.” Terry’s tone is lethal and out of nowhere. Mickey hits “end” on his call and looks up with practiced cool. “Where. The FUCK _were_ you?” 

He holds his father’s gaze. He knows if he looks away he’ll be giving himself up. But he’s got no story. Nothing. This whole fucking situation has made him stupid. He was smart enough to know it would. It’s the entire reason he didn’t want Ian to tell him anything that would allow him to go looking for him. Because he knew he would do it, and then this would happen.  
  
“I had some business.” 

“What fucking business you got that I don’t know about?” 

“Just some shit I’m looking into. Don’t gotta worry about it.”  
  
Terry smirks. “You think I’m stupid, don’t ya?” 

_Fuck._

“Whatever,” Mickey shrugs, looking back down at his phone. “Me and Ig are getting pizza. You want in?” 

“You do. You think I’m stupid. You think you can walk around here for a week like you’re god damn Our Lady of Sorrows and I’ll think you have a fucking head cold.” 

“Cheese and pepperoni?” 

“How’s fucking Svetlana? How about that?” 

“I’m _hungry_ ,” Mickey grounds out because it’s fucking true. He’s finally got some kind of appetite and he is feeling fucking murderous in the face of his father’s mounting temper tantrum. 

“You’re fucking going after him!” Terry steps forward, spittle flying and face purpling. “That’s where you were. That’s what you’re doing.” 

Mickey can see Iggy in his peripheral vision, moving into the arch between the kitchen and the dining room. “Pops?” 

“And you’re dragging your brother and sister into it, too. That it? Everyone getting together to pull one over on Terry?” 

“That ain’t it--” Mickey starts, but his father’s not having it. Before Mickey can even fully turn away, Terry has lunged at him, grabbing him full around the neck and slamming him into the kitchen wall with a force the leaves Mickey stunned and breathless. 

“Dad! What the FUCK?” 

Iggy stepping in like this is fucking unprecedented and Mickey can’t even tell him to go the fuck away because Terry’s hand is closing around his throat. He’s still trying not to react. Still trying to play this conversation off like it’s nothing, but as his airway closes, he feels the panic surge and reaches up to grab his father’s wrist. And Terry gives him a little smile. Learns forward and speaks up against Mickey’s ear. “I will find out if you’re lying to me. You fucking know, that right? If you’re playing me, I will fine OUT and I will fucking break your god damn bond with my bare hands.” 

And he lets go.  
  
Mickey is gasping for breath. Dragging air into his lungs and barely keeping on his feet, leaning back against the wall. His knees buckle, but he marshals himself. His strained breathing reminds him powerfully of someone else. Of Ian. 

Terry is yelling at Iggy now, and they're fighting about whether or not Iggy has somewhere to be. Mickey rolls against the wall so that he’s leaning on his shoulder. Then, using it as a support, he starts to pull himself towards his room. 

He’s lost his fucking appetite. 

***

When Mickey opens his eyes the next morning the first thing he’s aware of is a pounding headache. Another fucking hangover. Maybe the worst one yet. 

And there’s fucking noise. Loud and demanding and soul-destroying. 

He’d fucking drunk himself stupid last night. After Iggy left with his father, the house has been empty with Mandy who-the-fuck-knows where. Mickey was wrecked. He wasn’t that badly hurt, but he’d fucked up and his father had seen right through him. He hadn’t been able to keep himself in line and now he was right back where he fucking started. Fag. AIDS monkey. Aaron Bond. 

Alone, shaken and taking in the depths of his failure, Mickey finally gave up and let himself fall apart. Let himself cry, in short fits, and drink and rock himself in impotent despair. Something was wrong. Something HAD to be wrong. Enough time had gone by for Ian to figure out how to reach him, so something had to be stopping him. The only alternative was that Ian didn’t fucking care about him anymore and that couldn’t be true. 

Unless, of course, it was, and Mickey had just never really known or understood his fucking soulmate at all. Because that had to be possible, too. It made about as much sense as anything else. 

He’d drank continuously until those two fundamentally horrifying thoughts stopped warring in his head and he passed the fuck out. Only to wake to this fresh hell of some blaring intermittent alarm that was trying to rob him of whatever was left of his sanity. He opens one eye to try and determine the source. 

It’s his fucking cell phone. 

Mickey bolts up in bed. 

It’s the fucking _phone_. 

He grabs for it, takes in an unfamiliar Chicago number, and his heart flings itself full force against his ribcage. Fuck. It could be. It fucking COULD be. He pops the phone open, but when he speaks it’s uncharacteristically cautious. 

“Hello?”

He can hear breathing. Laboured. Mickey’s head throbs. 

“Hey, Mick.” 

And that’s it. Mickey falls back on the bed, hard. The air in his lungs vanishes. His arms feel like they’ve lost all structural integrity. “What the _fuck_ , Gallagher.” 

“Hey,” Ian is laughing. “Hey.” 

“Where the fuck ARE you?” he moans, without thinking. Without considering that it’s not a rhetorical fucking question. 

“I’m in--”

“Don’t TELL me! Jesus.” Mickey rubs his free hand over his face. He can’t entirely believe this is happening. He’s 75% convinced he’s just lost it completely and this is the break from reality he’s been expecting. 

“Ok,” Ian is still laughing -- and it sounds crazy, too. Surreal. “Ok, I won’t. I just. Fuck. I lost my phone.” 

“Fucking obviously.” 

“And I had to leave where I was staying, so. I just--” He cuts off like something’s pulled his attention. Like he’s distracted. “Fuck. I’m sorry. I just got --” 

“I gave you the fucking burner.” 

There’s an edge of a whine in his voice. Like he’s just barely holding back from wailing, _“Why? Why did you wait so long? Why did you DO that to me?”_

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s what I'm calling on.” 

Mickey pulls in an unsteady breath. Then another. There are tears running down his face. He wasn’t even aware. “It’s been a WEEK.” 

“I know.”  
  
“A fucking WEEK, Ian.” 

A week. He couldn’t sleep. He couldn't eat. He ingested enough pharmaceuticals to fell a t-rex. A WEEK. 

“I know. I know. I’m sorry. I was sick.” 

“Sick?” 

“Yeah. Just really…” Ian hauls in a breath. “Really sick.” 

“Too sick to call?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Must have been pretty fucking sick.”  
  
“Yeah,” Ian sounds completely uninterested. Mickey tries to remember if he’s ever been sick enough to not be able to dial a goddamn phone. But then Ian is changing the fucking topic, which is even more baffling. “What about you? How have you been?” 

“How have I fucking BEEN?” His hangover asserts itself again, brutal pain shooting from behind his eyes. “Let’s see. My fucking soulmate vanished off the face of the earth for a whole fucking week and I had no idea where or how he was. How do you THINK I’ve been?” 

The anger has its uses. It’s easy for him. A safe emotion. On the other hand, his head feels like it is full of bees and his stomach rolls in distress. 

“I’m sorry, Mick.” 

“Sorry.” 

“Yeah. Sorry. I was sick. I didn’t know--”  
  
“Like in the HOSPITAL sick?” 

“No.” 

“Just no-fucking-phone-calls sick.” 

Mickey waits for an answer, but all he gets is Ian’s breathing. Which doesn’t sound great, admittedly. 

“Didn’t go to the hospital,” Ian murmurs, eventually. “Maybe I should have. I don’t know.” 

Mickey sits with that. This still doesn’t make sense. The phone was lost -- fine. But obviously, he still had the burner. 

“I’m sorry--” 

“Don’t.” 

Mickey stares up at the ceiling. He can barely take this in. Ian sounds plaintive and Mickey doesn’t like it. He doesn’t want sad and sorry Ian. He wants the Ian that pushes back at him. The Ian that will tell him off for doubting him. He wants to be told he was stupid to worry and that everything is the same. It’s exactly where they left it. 

“Thought you were fucking dead,” Mickey finally pushes out words he was refusing to say out loud.  
  
“I know. I… I get that.” 

How the fuck can he _get_ that? Ian isn’t here. He can’t read him. He doesn’t know. He can’t fucking KNOW. Mickey rolls over in the bed and reaches across the empty mattress. Like his hand thinks Ian will be there and he can reach out and touch him. 

“You alone?” Mickey’s brow knits. Was Monica taking care of him? Was anyone? 

“Right now? Yeah.” 

“While you were sick.” 

There’s a long fucking pause. “No.” 

He’s being careful. Mickey can tell. That’s got to be his fault. He’s too angry and asking too many questions and just fucking this whole thing up. He forces himself to breathe. Focus on what matters. 

“You’re ok? Now?” 

“Getting better, I think. I think I have two days of pills left.” 

Mickey smiles slightly. Unexpectedly. “So you went to a doctor.”  
  
“Yeah.” 

Thank Christ. That makes sense. Too sick to call has to be Doctor-sick. Maybe Ian was delirious. And only fucking _Monica_ to take care of him. Mickey’s fingers ache at the thought of it. He wants to go back in time. He wants to go back and find Ian and make sure he’s ok. Take him to the fucking hospital if that’s what he needed. Make sure he had water and blankets and got the right food. 

“I don’t know what you want me to say.” Ian interrupts Mickey’s vivid Florence Nightingale daydream. Jesus CHRIST, Ian turns him into a sap. 

“Nothing.” 

“I can tell the story--” 

“I don’t want the story, Ian,” he exhales. “I just want you to be fucking safe.” 

“I want to see you.” 

Mickey’s stomach twists violently and saliva floods his mouth. Like he’s going to be sick. Just with fucking terror at how much he wants that.  
  
“Fuck. Ian.”  
  
“Just for a minute.” 

_Yes. Fuck. Please._

“Come on,” he breathes.   
  
“I’m serious.” 

Mickey closed his eyes, his brain already racing through possibilities. How far away is he? How quickly can Mickey get to him? How long can he stay? How the fuck would he walk away again? 

And what would his father do? What fucking lie can he even tell? What possible reason does he have to just vanish for a day? Or two? Fuck, even 12 hours… 

“I can’t just take off, Ian. It’s the opposite of fucking safe.”

“I could GET to Chicago.”  
  
“Ian!” Mickey’s whole body jerks. He said that too loud. “Fuck. No.” 

“Just. Once. Just one time. It can be fast. I just feel like… I feel like I need it.” 

“Are you out of your fucking MIND?” 

“I don’t think I can do this anymore. I don’t… I don’t feel right, Mickey.” 

Oh. Oh, _no_ . He turns, forcing himself to sit up. “You fucking _have_ to.” 

“Please.” 

He hears a catch in Ian’s voice and it kills him. There is nothing he wants more than to see Ian right now. But not if it costs them everything. Not if it makes it impossible for them to ever be together. Not if he has to live the last week over and over again for the rest of his god damn life. 

“Ian,” he manages that much. His mouth keeps moving but no words come out until he finally produces his old standby. “Fuck.” His own voice breaks a little. “I fucked up. I couldn’t fucking deal. Everyone noticed. I can’t--” 

And then Ian is coughing. Distant, like he’s turned away from the phone, but deep and dangerous sounding. Convulsive. It feels like it goes on for fucking ever. Mickey’s hand tightens around the phone.

“Sorry,” Ian croaks when he’s back on the line. 

“Jesus Christ.” 

“Sick.”  
  
“Yeah, I got that.” 

Any tiny part of Mickey that was worrying about Ian not being fully honest about where the past eight days went vanishes as he listens to his soulmate cough and choke and gasp for breath. It sounds horrible. He sounds wrecked. He sounds like he fucking needs someone. Needs _Mickey_. 

Ian takes an unsteady breath. “I know you can’t.” 

It kills him a little. The resignation. The acceptance. But it’s an out. Mickey can surrender to that. To Ian being the voice of reason and telling him what is absolutely true: They cannot risk Mickey going after him. Maybe if he’d handled this better. Had more fucking faith in the person he loves more than anything and had not completely lost his shit and knocked over every fucking domino he had laid out over the past six weeks. 

“It’d fucking kill me if something happened to you, Ian.” 

He can say that much. Because it’s true. If they get through this and end up living a whole life together, Mickey is dying first. He’s not doing any variation of this shit again. 

“It’s ok. I know it’s stupid.” 

“Yeah,” Mickey fucking hates it but it’s true. He lets Ian’s words settle him. “Yeah. We can’t -- I’ll figure something else out. But we can’t do that.” 

****

Hanging up is agony. He doesn’t want to do it -- but Ian is tired and fading and Mickey can tell he needs to sleep.  
  
Mickey’s a little exhausted himself. He drops back onto the mattress and presses his palms to his eyes. Ian is ok. Ian is _ok_. Thank fucking christ. 

In his relief he lets himself do something stupid. He reaches out for his spare pillow and hugs it to his chest. Rolls onto his side, closes his eyes and lets himself pretend he’s with Ian. That he’s able to hold him and soothe him and rub his back if he has another coughing fit. 

It’s embarrassing. But it helps him drift off to sleep.

***

Mickey wakes up mid-afternoon from the first real sleep he’s had in a week. His mouth tastes like a trash can and his head is still fucking angry with him, but he feels… lighter. Just a little. 

The house is empty, so he doesn’t have anyone bitching when his shower lasts more than five minutes. He shaves for the first time in about a week. Takes Advil by the handful and washes it down with the half can of beer he grabbed from his nightstand. 

He smiles. It feels weird. Like his facial muscles don’t entirely remember how it works. He puts on entirely clean clothes out of his dresser. Enjoys the smell of the body wash and the fabric softer and mouth wash all co-mingling to present the idea that he is a functional human being. 

The house looks exactly the same. Everything sort of dim and cluttered and stale, just like always. He feels like something should be _different_ . He grabs the half-broken laptop he shares with his siblings off the kitchen table and does a little light googling while he gulps down a half bottle of Gatorade. He decides Ian probably has pneumonia -- or maybe bronchitis. Sick as he is, pneumonia seems like the winner. And that isn’t fucking _good_ but isn’t usually fatal in robustly healthy 17-year-olds. 

So he’ll live. And Mickey needs to eat something. 

He has that deep post-bad-drunk need for greasy breakfast food. There’s nothing to cook, he can’t stand the idea of sitting down for too long and it’s too late in the afternoon for something as easy as a McMuffin. He pulls on Ian’s hoodie, which he has barely been able to bring himself to touch, and grabs a scarf against the November cold. It’s brisk, but the sun is out and he catches himself grinning through his headache and the fog of having slept so fucking late. He pauses on the top step to light a cigarette, giving himself a second to plan his next move. 

“What are you so happy about?” 

Mickey turns too fast and has reached out and grabbed a random metal rod (mop handle? Mic stand?) before he realizes it’s just Mandy, sitting on the railing on the other side of the porch.

“Jesus Christ!” Mickey tosses down his makeshift weapon and takes a fitful drag. “Don’t fucking do that.” 

“You should thank me. Gotta be good to know you can still move that fast.” 

Mickey flips her off but leans back against the wall like he’ll entertain a conversation. He might even be in a good mood. 

“Gonna get something to eat.” 

“Didn’t know you still did that.” 

He shrugs. Takes another drag. He supposed he owes Mandy an explanation at this point. 

“Ian called.”  
  
“What?” Mandy leaps off the railing. “When? What the fuck, Mick!” 

“This morning. Didn’t fucking know you were here.” 

“You could have texted me!” 

“I’m not fucking texting you about Ian! Jesus Christ.” 

“Fuck! Paranoid motherfucker.” She shakes her head. “So?” 

Mickey looks blank and Mandy hits him on the arm. Fucking hard.

“So HOW IS HE? What the fuck happened?” 

“Ok, ok!” He puts up a hand. “Take a step back, will ya?” 

She doesn’t, so Mickey just averts his eyes and concerns himself with his cigarette, flicking ash onto his shoe. He’s not sure why, but this is fucking hard to talk about. “Figured out a few days ago that he lost his phone. He called me today on a burner.” 

“And?” 

“And he’s been sick.” 

“What do you mean, ‘sick’?” 

“Like really fucking sick. What does it matter?” 

“Too sick to call?” 

It’s not like he didn’t have the exact same fucking questions but Mickey’s temper flares anyway, and he pushes away from her, moving to stand on the stairs. “Yes, too sick to call! He’s on fucking antibiotics and shit. Nearly coughed up a goddamn lung while we were talking.” 

Mandy blanches. “That sounds bad.”  
  
“No shit.” 

“Did he go to the hospital?” 

“No, he didn’t go to the _hospital_. Went to a doctor. He’s doing ok now.” 

“Is he alone?” 

“Mandy, fucking lay off, ok?” 

“The fuck you mean, lay off? You were a fucking wreck this whole week, in case you didn’t notice. Me and Iggy practically had to perform CPR to get you out of bed! You think that was fun?” 

“Yeah, well. Thank you very fucking much and all. But it’s done now. I’m cool. You can,” he puts a hand up and gestures weakly. “Find something else to do with your time.” 

Mandy looks murderous for a hot second and then -- in a turn of events he wishes he didn’t have to see -- her face falls and she just looks sad. “Do the Gallaghers know Ian’s ok?” 

“How the fuck should I know? Did they even know he was missing?” 

Mandy shrugs. “Dunno. Lip’s pissed about him being gone.”  
  
“Lip’s fucking pissed about everything.” 

Mandy doesn’t rear up in defence of her boyfriend, which is weird, but Mickey’s too wrung out to pursue it right now. 

“Dad’s noticing,” his sister murmurs, looking at him through her bangs.

“Yeah, he made that pretty fucking clear already.” 

Mandy shifts her weight and glances over towards the road. “If you can’t do this, then you gotta go.” 

“I can do this.”  
  
_All evidence to the contrary._

“I’m just saying if I was you --”  
  
“You aren’t.”  
  
“No fucking kidding. But if it was me, I’d get some fucking cash together and get out.”

Mickey stubbornly refuses to look at her. Their father treats him and Mandy entirely differently and he’s not sure anyone but Mandy has a better chance to just bounce and never hear from Terry again. But her words are sinking in, feeding his feelings of inadequacy. He’s happy Ian’s ok. He’s happy to have that question answered. But right behind that is the fact that Ian asked for him… and Mickey said no. Because he _maybe_ can’t do this. He might not be able to keep Ian safe by keeping his father happy. He may just need to go and protect him in person and hope for the best. Hope that they can figure out a way to stay away without anyone coming after them. 

“I kept thinking,” he takes a breath. He shouldn’t fucking talk about this. But. “Kept thinking about surviving soulmates. How much it must suck to be one.” 

“Yeah,” Mandy looks really and honestly upset at the idea. And he can relate. 

“Yeah. So. I’m gonna do what I gotta do right now to just keep both of us alive. Ok? Right now, I’m gonna get something to eat. You wanna come? I’m buying.” 

Mandy snorts. “Save your money. I got some shit to finish anyway,” she nods towards the street and Mickey turns to follow her gaze. 

“What the fuck happened to the windshield?” 

“Hit a girl from school.” 

Fucking WHEN? 

“Iggy’s gonna be pissed.”

“I’ll take care of it.” 

“You check for hair behind the grill?” 

She shrugs. Ugh. Fine.  
  
“You want me to call Manny?” 

Mandy holds his gaze a long time before she nods. “Yeah. That’d be good.” 

***

He calls Manny on his way down to Tommy’s, where he gets a dog, an order of waffle fries and a coke. He sits alone on a park bench to eat and nurse himself back to normal. He can _feel_ the calories entering his system. Holy fuck. What had he been running on? Bourbon and beer and whatever Mandy forced down his throat. 

He finds himself laughing out loud as he eats his food. Like a fucking lunatic. He’s _happy_ . But as his blood sugar returns to normal levels and his headache diminishes, he feels that familiar tug in his gut. He wants to hear Ian’s voice again. Even if he’s tired. He wants to talk to him. Talk like they had been, with Ian all warm and soft and teasing. _Fuck_ , he misses him. The cold hard terror of not knowing what had happened had taken up so much room that he’s only now feeling the rest of it. The stuff that makes the idea of Ian so profoundly unappealing. 

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and rubs his thumb across the LED screen. He’s theoretically under the microscope again. They’re usually afforded the opportunity to lick their wounds after Terry goes after one of them, but this wasn’t a fucking pistol-whipping. Mickey isn’t gravely injured. He has today, he figures, and then he has to start building his fucking house of cards all over again. So he should be really fucking careful. 

And he will be. Tomorrow. 

He’s feeling fucking giddy as the phone rings. Thinking he’ll tell Ian more this time. Let him know he was hungover. That he’d been worried. Maybe he’ll give up completely and say something unforgivably sappy. _Just want to hear your voice. Just want to make sure you’re really there. Never fucking do that to me again. I’m a fucking wreck without you._ Whatever it takes. He just wants to hear Ian’s laugh. 

He’s still considering options when the voicemail picks up and his mood drops like a stone.  
  
You’ve got to be fucking kidding. 

***

Mickey pushes back into the Milkovich house with his stomach in knots, his head pounding and fighting a desperate desire to punch something. 

No. Not punch. Smash. Particularly this fucking phone. 

He makes a beeline to the kitchen, wrenches open the fridge and reaches for a bottle of Old Style. He opens it with a practiced flick of his wrist and then paces as he angrily chugs down as much beer as he can without a hose and a funnel. 

It’s one missed call. One. 

Doesn't fucking matter. He’s broken, apparently. He can’t handle missed calls. He can’t handle missing Ian. He can’t even maintain a good mood for more than 45 minutes. He can’t fucking DO this. It’s done. He’s just fucking done. 

He’s gotta leave. 

But he can’t leave. 

But he can’t do THIS. He fucking can’t. 

Mandy’s right. He can’t wait this out. He is turning out to be fundamentally incapable of it. 

***

“Hello?” 

“Hey. It’s, uh... It’s Mickey” 

“Hmm. Long time.” 

“Yeah, well.” Mickey twists the fabric of Ian’s hoodie between his fingers. He doesn’t know why he’s so fucking anxious. “This thing you’ve been talking about. You still need me?” 

There’s silence because nothing can ever be fucking easy. He can hear some kind of pop music in the background. Not American. 

“I can use you,” Svetlana eventually drawls. 

“Then fine,” Mickey exhales. “I’m in. Let’s go.” 

***

“Hey.” 

“Hey,” Mickey’s heart thunders in his chest. Holy fuck. Third call, but holy fuck. It’s just a few hours later and Ian answered. “You’re there.” 

“Mmmm hmmm.” 

“Called earlier.”  
  
“Sleeping.” 

“Yeah. Bet you need it.” Mickey’s sitting up in bed with his back against his headboard, pillow in his lap. “You feeling any better?” he ventures. 

“Mmm.” 

“That a yes or a no?” 

“.... a what?” 

Jesus Christ. 

“Ok,” Mickey clears his throat. “Doesn’t matter. Just as long as you’re not worse.” There’s a terrifying idea he hadn’t entirely considered. Fucking relapse. “You’re not alone right? You got someone who’ll take you to the hospital? If you get worse?” 

He gets no response. 

“Hey. You still there?” 

Still nothing.

”Ian!” 

“Yeah?”  
  
“You falling asleep on me?”  
  
“Mmm.” 

Fuck. Mickey pulls in a deep breath. He needs to count to fucking three or something. Remember that this isn’t Ian ignoring him. That he’s sick. And he isn’t alone. And it’s going to be ok. 

“‘Kay. I’m gonna let you go. Get some rest. I’ll call in three days. But if something happens, if you need me, you can call. Let’s say that, ok? You call if you have to. I’ll call back soon as I can.” 

He hears breathing but nothing else. 

“Gallagher. You got that?” 

“Yeah.” 

Yeah. He sounds a million fucking miles away. Mickey exhales. “Ok. Go the fuck to sleep. Three days.”  
  
“Ok.” 

“Ok.” 

***

He doesn’t get too drunk that night, so he doesn’t get much sleep, either. Instead, he lies in bed and plays his conversations with Ian over and over in his head. The second one, mostly. Where Ian could barely stay conscious. 

He’ll call in three days because that’s what he WAS doing and it was working. He’s going to trust that Monica can keep Ian alive -- or that IAN can keep Ian alive -- because he doesn’t see how he has another choice right now. 

But he can’t stop thinking about the way his voice sounded. Weak and far away. It all feels wrong. This whole fucking thing feels wrong. Like he shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be trying to make this work. He should be where Ian is. He wants to pick up the phone and call Ian and tell him “fuck it.” Suggest that they just find someplace between wherever Ian is and Chicago and hole up in a motel for two days. 

But then he imagines what it would feel like to see Ian hurt. It’s not hard. His brain is happy to remind him how close he came to seeing the fucking worst happen. So he imagines it. Imagines just how deep that well of grief would be and how vast the regret. And he tells himself that would be a fraction of what he’d feel if he got Ian killed. 

He can do this. He can make a better plan. Because he’s pretty sure he can’t do two more months of this shit. 

***

He meets up with Svetlana the next day at the Alibi. She makes him buy her lunch -- which is just a basket of fries -- to make up for the wait. But it doesn’t seem like Svetlana has a lot of other irons in the fire. She knows someone who can get the cars from the chop shop -- they’ll change, she says, but they’ll be good cars. Black SUVs, shit like that. Something that looks unassuming and classy. Svetlana won’t say anything other than to reassure him that he won’t get hung up in some crazy scheme he has no way out of. Criminal enterprise is one thing --- but getting involved in something bigger than you with no leverage is just fucking stupid. 

Shit has happened while he was MIA. She charmed some random dude into making a website for her. She gives him the names of the four women -- Masha, Irina, Annika and Sasha -- they pass through Mickey consciousness like air. Whatever. He’ll figure it out. Now she’s talking to him about pictures. She wants him to take them. 

“I don’t know shit about pictures.” 

“Is digital camera. Monkey could do it.” 

“Then get a fucking monkey.” 

Svetlana’s mouth tightens. “I create image not only for men. For girls, too. They take risk, I make sure they see things look right. You take pictures. And you tell them clothes are trash.” 

“Hey, fuck that. I don’t know shit about women’s clothes.” 

“Doesn’t matter. You…” she rolls her wrist. “Red-blooded American Male. They listen to you.” 

Something about her tone gets MIckey’s hackles up. He gulps at his beer, angrily. “This is all bullshit. You know that, right?” 

“Bullshit,” she nods. “Yes. American way.” 

***

Outside the Alibi, Mickey lights a cigarette. The weather is turning cold as they barrel towards a frozen thanksgiving. He turns his phone in his hand. He could wait. It’s been three days, so Ian knows he’s going to call. But he could wait until he gets home. 

He flips open the phone with his thumb and navigates the call log to find Ian’s number. Takes a drag as he presses it to his ear. 

No fucking answer.  
  
***

He doesn’t have a chance to try again until near midnight. Alone, in his room, he has to convince himself to do it. Brace himself for voice mail. But the phone only gets to the third ring. 

“Hey,” Ian answers, clearly half asleep. 

“Why aren’t you answering the fucking phone?” 

“Didn’t hear it. I don’t know. Can’t get the ringer up very loud.” 

“So just keep it on you.”  
  
“It IS on me.” 

“Whatever. Doesn’t fucking matter. How are you doing?” 

“Mmm. Ok. Slept most of the day, I guess.” 

“Still pretty fucked up?” 

“Yeah,” Ian sighs. “Fucked up. Bored, too.” 

Mickey smiles. Ian’s never been good at being bored. “You’re sleeping this much, you must need it.”

“You sound like Fiona.”  
  
That a compliment? Mickey can’t tell.

“You talk to her at all?” 

“Don’t talk to anyone but you,” Ian says, flatly. “Text her sometimes. Proof of life shit.” 

“Yeah? I could use a little of that.” 

He means it as a joke, but Ian lets out a heavy sigh. “Sorry.” 

“Don’t… Don’t need you to be sorry. Just.” He pushes out his breath. “Worry about you.”  
  
Fucking LOVE you, Ian. God damn. 

“Yeah,” Ian says, heavily. “I know. I just… I don’t know. Still sorry.”  
  
“Kinda my fault we’re in this shit in the first place.” 

“Right. Fucking nerve to be born a Milkovich.”  
  
“‘Ey. No Gallagher talks shit about a Milkovich and lives.” 

Not THAT long ago, that would have been a joke. Now Mickey’s stomach lurches at his own bad attempt at humour. 

“It’s not your fault, Mickey.” 

Mickey rubs his eyes. Gallagher would see it that way. He would fucking ignore that Mickey has lost all control of the situation. Has completely failed to protect him. Failed to make anything better.  
  
“I’m trying, Ian,” Mickey says, finally. Chest tight. There’s just silence on the other end. So much quiet for Mickey to imagine Ian’s reaction. 

“I know.” 

Ian’s voice is soft and sad. The guilt swamps Mickey. 

***

Mickey is fucking pissed to discover he does have actual opinions about the clothes. The women bicker in Russian, and he doesn’t understand a single fucking word, but Svetlana is right. The clothes are trashy. The clothes should still be trashy, but for what Svetlana wants -- what she’s shown him online -- there needs to be maybe 15% less spandex involved. 

“You need shit with zippers,” he says, finally, fiddling with this stupid fucking camera Svetlana says she got from the web guy. “Or buttons or whatever. Just… LIke tight, but shit you can’t take off like a t-shirt. It’s sexier.”  
  
Svetlana glances over at him with a look of grim satisfaction. He hates it, but this is fucking ridiculous and they’re giving him a headache. 

“And where we get?” 

“How the fuck should I know?” 

She smirks, which annoys him even more. But when he’s leaving, she thrusts a fucking iPhone at him. “Here. You need something better than piece of shit phone.” 

“Where do you _get_ this stuff?” 

She shrugs. “Men give me things. Is old, but is better than what you have.” 

He’d argue, but she’s right.  
  
***

He sets up the phone the next day. It spikes his anxiety, and he has no idea why. Just… Text messages and emails and shit. And he can passcode it, but his father will probably demand access. He tells his dad he stole it off some kid and Terry has no further questions. For the moment. 

Mickey puts Ian into his contacts this time. He puts him in as Ang. Easy to attribute it to someone he has known contact with, and there’s something comforting to him about how he can slide it into Ian G in his head. He traces his fingers over the circle with the blank human figure that stands in for the picture. He doesn’t have a picture of Ian. Could have asked for one, but back when Ian left, he wasn’t the mess he’s turning into now. He’d only been able to think about the risk. 

Now it’s just one more thing. One more tiny thing that might help, but that he doesn’t have. 

***

“Here. You wear this.” 

Svetlana shoves an armful of dark woollen material at Mickey and he lets it unfurl to reveal a mid-length men’s peacoat. He frowns. 

“Where the fuck did you get this?” 

“I steal from coat check. Is nice, yes?” 

“No,” Mickey frowns, tossing the coat down onto the back of the couch. “It’s not nice. What the fuck do you want me in this get-up for? I’m not fucking selling anything.” 

“What you wear when you drop girls off?” She nods at him. “Ugly hoodie? Big giant Walmart parka?” 

Mickey is, at the moment, wearing Ian’s hoodie. He digs his hands into the pockets, feeling affronted in his own living room. 

“I’ll wear my fucking clothes. What the hell do you care?” 

“No. You wear clothes I tell you. We all wear nice clothes. Respectable.” 

“This is fucking bullshit.” 

“You wear because I pay. And I take risk! You are risk.” 

“How am I a fucking risk?” 

“You are small.”  
  
“Ok, fuck you.” 

“Most men do this, they are big. People see them, they know not to cause trouble. With you, it’s all,” she gestures in his general direction. “This and the fuck-you tattoos. Stupid men maybe try something to find out if you are tough or not.”

“I don’t see what the fuck this has to do with that fucking coat.” 

“You look nice. You look like you are trying to look respectable.” She gestures at him again. “Then you look like smart man who knows how to dress, but has fuck-you tattoos. Is strange.” She snaps her fingers, looking for a word. “ _Unnerving_.” 

“What the fuck are you talking about? This isn’t psych 101. They think I’m a pussy, that’s fine. They can keep thinking that while I pull their teeth out through their fucking nose.” 

Svetlana rolls her eyes in high irritation. “Point is no. Point is never have to do that.” 

“There is no way a peacoat is gonna make any fucking difference to anybody.” 

“You say girls' clothes are trash. You don’t think your clothes are trash?” 

“I’m not trying to get someone to pay top dollar for something they could get done for $20 at a rub and tug!” 

“You get 30%! You are trying to do same thing!” 

“What are you two arguing about?” 

Mickey almost starts as his father enters from the kitchen. He hadn’t even known Terry was fucking home. Svetlana, who is unfailingly sweet to Terry for some fucking reason, sells him out immediately. 

“I bring him gift. He doesn’t like.” 

“Mickey! Where’s your fucking manners. Thank your lady friend for the faggy coat.” 

Mickey raises an eyebrow at Svetlana. Her mouth twists into a smile.

“This is fucking _Chicago_ , you know.” 

“I know,” she gathers the offending garment up off the couch and thrusts it at him again. “Is cold. Wear the fucking coat.” 

***

He walks Svetlana out because it seems like something he’s supposed to do. He’s pretended to fuck girls before, but that was the extent of it. It was never a formal arrangement like this shit, where he has to act like he and Svetlana have a thing going on. She asks him to light her cigarette on the porch and he quells the instinct to tell her to light her own fucking cigarette. Maybe someone’s watching. Maybe someone will buy he’s into this. 

“I have job tomorrow.” 

Mickey looks blank, then realizes what she means. “What, something you need me for?” 

“Early adopter,” she looks pleased with her use of the phrase. “First client. We must make good impression. Maybe good for business.” 

Mickey usually has decent enough instincts for business, but he hasn’t been able to get his brain to engage with this. Apart from the Kash & Grab, he’s never had a job in his life where he wasn’t a figure of some kind of authority -- with his brothers if no one else -- and while he wants to push back on all the shit Svetlana hits him with he just doesn’t care. If his dad thinks he’s fucking her and he’s making some money off the whole thing, then fucking fine. Let that be enough for once. 

“What time?” 

Svetlana takes a drag on one of her long, skinny chick cigarettes. “9:00. But you meet me at 8:00 at Alibi and we go get car, then get girl. Wear coat.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters as she smirks at him. “I’ll wear the fucking coat.” 

She smiles, leans forward and Mickey ducks his head back immediately. “What the fuck?” 

“Lipstick,” she looks irritated. “For show.” 

“Oh.” 

Lipstick’s never something Mickey has to worry about much. Svetlana presses her bright pink lips to his cheek, which he takes as at least some kind of courtesy. 

When he heads back inside, wiping at the lipstick his the back of his hand, he finds his Uncle Ronnie and cousin Jamie have joined his dad at the dining room table. Must have come in the back.

“Ah!” Terry sneers. “Look who’s decided to grace us with his presence.”  
  
“Hey, Mick,” Jamie nods. And fuck. Mickey hasn’t seen him for fucking months. “How’s it going?” 

“Pretty good,” Mickey forces a little bit of cheer into his voice. As Milkoviches go, Jamie’s ok. Big fucker. Tough. But he must take after his mother in disposition because he can be fucking cheerful sometimes and it’s weird. 

His Uncle Ronnie gives a less enthusiastic greeting and Mickey drops down into an empty chair. There are two duffle bags on the table. Terry’s been leaving Mickey out as much as he’d previously had Mickey in, so he has to guess what’s up. 

“Gun run?” 

Terry grunts, hunched over the table with a cup of coffee and a cigarette. He resumes his conversation with Ronnie and leaves Mickey unanswered. Mickey listens for a few minutes, but the conversation is the same shit as always, so he leans back in his chair, fishes out his smokes and lights up. He glances at Jamie and tosses the pack in his direction.

“Nah,” Jamie says. “I quit. My girl doesn’t like it.” 

Mickey shrugs and exhales smoke through his nostrils. Probably just to be an asshole. “What fucking girl is this?” 

He asks lightly. Not because he cares, but because he wants to pull away from whatever bullshit his father and uncle are spinning.  
  
“Tina,” Jamie smiles and Mickey feels a familiar resentment start to curl in his stomach. 

“Tina,” he repeats. “What’s the fucking deal with TIna?” 

Jamie doesn’t acknowledge the sourness in MIckey’s tone and just starts to talk about her. He’s all lit up and twitterpated in a way no Milkovich has any right to be. Thankfully, it doesn’t take much time for Jamie to veer from Tina and into some other news. He’d been up in Kenosha for a few months because of her. Coming back to Chicago to try and make some cash. Staying with Ronnie, the one Milkovich smart enough not to marry, who always had a bit of space for his millions of nieces and nephews. 

“You should come by,” Jamie urges. “Have barely seen you this whole last year.” 

It’s true. Couple of years ago, before he bonded with Ian, he and Jamie and Joey had spent a lot of time together. Colin and Iggy had both been in juvie for a bit, so Mickey had drifted towards his two giant cousins. They’d spent most of their time just fucking around at Uncle Ronnie’s. Target practice, setting things on fire. Ronnie had an old mattress in the backyard they used to use as a mock wrestling ring. Jamie’s dwarfed Mickey since they were kids, so he got used to being the one making the dramatic falls.  
  
Feels like a fucking lifetime ago. 

“Yeah, you give him hell, Jamie,” Terry pipes up from the other end of the table. “Never leaves the fucking house if I don’t drag ‘im out.” 

“I leave,” he mutters.

“He’s haunting this place like a fucking ghost.”  
  
“Just dealing with some of my own shit, Pops.” 

“You should be acting like a fucking Milkovich. Hanging out with your brothers and your cousins. Doing something else besides moping around like a fucking kicked puppy all the time!” 

Mickey sees Uncle Ronnie and Jamie exchange a look. He stands up, pulling his phone from his back pocket. “Going out tomorrow.” He gives the table a bright smile. “So don’t fucking worry about it.” 

***

Mickey walks Masha, who is maybe the size of his arm, past the concierge desk at a decently glitzy hotel and has to admit the coat isn’t the worst idea in the world. If only because people don’t pay any attention. Masha has her own too-thin coat on over her too-short dress, but he can recognize she looks good. Like, _cold_ , but appealing. She has skin so pale it’s almost translucent with a striking mouth, dark hair and big eyes. Svetlana seems to have picked her girls well. They’re all a little different but all similarly hard as nails. Masha makes him nervous, though. He knows better than anyone that size isn’t fucking everything, but a big enough guy could lift her by her neck. She’s gotta be 90 pounds. 

He doesn’t bring that up on the way to the room. Just confirms that she’s got his cell number before they step off the elevator. They get to the room and Mickey’s concern vanishes. The guy’s not much taller than Mickey and doesn’t have nearly the muscle mass. He’s nervous and blushing and it’d fucking stun him if there’s a problem. Masha says something to Mickey in Russian, which he doesn’t understand, but Svetlana told him not to talk much and he’s feeling too heavy to even bother to point out that he has no fucking clue what she said. 

He climbs back into the car -- a black Jeep Cherokee that is tricked out to the point of being ridiculous -- and doesn’t even toss Svetlana a glance. She is fixing her makeup by the dim light of the visor mirror and clicks her tongue in irritation when Mickey shifts into gear and pulls into traffic a little more abruptly than she’d like. He drives down a couple of blocks and then pulls into a back alley to park behind a closed store’s “customers only” spot. He cuts the engine, turns up the heater and digs his hands into the pocket of the fucking peacoat. Closing his eyes, he settles back into the seat. Which is heated. The rich live like fucking kings. 

“You need to stop this.”

More fucking advice. Wonderful.  
  
“I’m fine.” 

“You are not fine. You are moping weirdo. Girls all think you are strange. I tell them you have mono.” 

Mickey opens one eye. “Why the fuck did you tell them I had mono?” 

“Because you are depressing. And is better people think it’s temporary. You have to get shit together. Otherwise, you do something stupid.” 

“Too late.” 

Svetlana shifts in her seat to fully look at him. “Like what?” 

_Starting this conversation, for one thing._

“Never fucking mind. I’m handling it.” 

“Yes, I see you handle it. I send Masha up to room with big sad balloon man.” 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” 

“You are missing soulmate. Is no good. You need to suck it up.” 

Mickey stares hard at the dash where he’s left his phone. Masha is supposed to be with this prick for an hour. He’s got 50 more minutes of this, easy.  
  
“I know,” he says, finally. He can’t even argue with Svetlana about it. He’s the big sad balloon man, whatever the fuck that means. “I lost contact with him for a bit. Kinda fucked me up.” 

“Is malaise. You go to Doctor. He can help.” 

“How can he fucking help?” 

She shrugs. “Anti-depressant, anti-anxiety. Whatever you need.” 

“That won’t do shit,” he frowns. “Fucking expensive, anyway.” 

She shrugs. “Then you just do other things. You take drugs, you drink too much.”

So what the fuck else was new? That was what Milkoviches did. Mickey tries to imagine having a little bottle of pills to take for _anxiety_. Because he doesn’t need a fucking doctor to tell him that’s what’s going on. Mickey’s stomach is producing enough acid to destroy a corpse. 

“I just need to see him.” 

_There’s_ something he shouldn’t have said out loud.

“Just... For a minute,” Mickey exhales. “If I could see that he’s really ok, it’d get better.” 

Svetlana is silent for a long moment. He just listens to her breath and stares at the fog that’s building up on the windshield. 

“No,” she says finally, with a certainty that makes him want to scream. “It will not. It will make it worse. You see him now, when you leave, it will feel like someone is pulling out fingernails from root.” 

_Jesus._

“Everyone is always so fucking sure they know what this is like,” Mickey grouses. “People leave their soulmates all the time and they fucking deal with it.” 

“No,” Svetlana tells him with authority. “I will tell you what it is like. You see him, and you feel better. Maybe better than you ever feel. Feel like everything is ok now and will always be ok. And then you spend all your time with him and you shut out the rest of the world. You will read him again and you will be happy. He loves you. You will _like_ what you read. But then the time will be up and you will try to leave and it will be even worse than last time because now you know what it is like. Now you know what you go back to.” She stares grimly out at the alleyway. “You will feel empty as soon as he is gone. Even more empty than you feel now.” 

“But I’ll know he’s ok--”

“Soulmates can stay away when they don’t like what they read. Angry people. Hurt people. But soulmates who have peace with each other,” her eyes flick over to his. “Soulmates who maybe do not have peace anywhere else? They suffer. You? Will suffer.” 

Mickey’s neck prickles. He wants to tell her to fuck off. But what she’s saying feels so fucking true. He’s been feeling it ever since Ian asked him to come see him. That if he goes, he won’t be able to leave. It’ll be so much fucking worse this time. HOW did they survive juvie? How the fuck did they DO it? 

“We make money,” Svetlana cuts into his thoughts. “We make good money and then when time is right, you go back to him and you stay.” 

“How long will that fucking take?” 

Svetlana shrugs. “I do not know. That is what makes it bad. You leave, you know he back in few hours, few days… No problem. You leave, you don’t know when you see again…” Svetlana pants and he realizes she’s miming panic. He fucking hates that he relates to this. “Is better to keep head down, do work. Get closer.” She nods. “You pick number, decide what you need to go. Maybe help find someone to replace you, you want to be nice. But make plan. It will help.”

He can feel the truth of that, too. 

***

“Hey.” 

“Hey.”  
  
It’s 11:30 and Mickey is home. Calling from his bedroom, which he is doing too fucking often. He’d sworn to himself he wouldn’t do it tonight, but his conversation with Svetlana has gotten under his skin. The need to talk to Ian feels so overwhelming he almost can’t come up with anything to say. When he was in juvie, he remembers calling when he felt like that. Just asking Ian to talk to him until he felt himself calm. Instead, he listens to Ian hack up a lung while he waits. 

“Cough sounds bad,” he observes when it finally stops. 

“I guess,” Ian rasps. “Feel a lot better, though.”  
  
“Yeah?” 

“Doesn’t hurt anymore.” 

Mickey pauses in emptying his pockets onto his dresser. “What do you mean, ‘hurt’?” 

“Like hurt. It’s fucking gross, man. I’ll spare you.” 

“No,” Mickey frowns as he shrugs out of the god damn pea coat. “What do you mean?” 

Ian gives a long-suffering sigh, then starts to explain. Tells Mickey in scant detail about how sick he was. How he can remember hurting so badly that it was hard for him to cough up all the fluid that was collecting in his lungs. How pain would shoot up his spine and under his ribs. Mickey’s silent, but his heart is hammering in his chest when Ian finishes. 

“Sounds dangerous.”  
  
“I guess. I get how this shit might kill someone.” 

“Yeah, don’t talk that kinda shit to me,” Mickey busies himself by sorting the change on his dresser absently, just pushing it around with his finger. He can feel the edge of panic pushing at him, sweat breaking out along his hairline. Jesus Christ. Just that idea -- Ian. Unable to breathe -- gripping his imagination. “You’re getting better,” he says it for his own benefit as much as anything. So that he doesn’t just flat out lose it. “That’s the important part.” 

“Yeah,” Ian sounds a little listless. “I’m staying with a nurse --” 

“Hey!” 

“There are nurses all over the place, Mick. Calm down. Temporary anyway. But she knows some shit so she’s got me taking vitamins and stuff. Eating chicken soup.” 

“How the fuck are you staying with a nurse? You just wandering the country getting picked up by random do-gooders?” 

“Something like that.” 

He wants to ask if this is still Wisconsin. He wants to ask where Monica is. And, against the advice he got tonight, he wants to ask if Ian still wants to see him.  
  
“Well, ok. Do what she says, I guess.” 

“I’m trying,” Ian sniffs. “Got a job today.”  
  
_Fuck._

“A job?” 

“Yeah.” 

_What kind of job? Where? How serious? Are you planning on staying there? Are you going to start a whole fucking life without me?_

“What about school?” 

“It’s Thanksgiving. I think school’s gonna be a wash.” 

“Not forever, though.” 

“Since when do you care?”

Mickey blinks, stung. “I always fucking care.” 

“No, I mean,” Ian gives another heavy sigh, but it turns into more coughing. Mickey waits it out, chewing on his lip. “I just meant school wasn’t really your thing. YOU back in school?” 

“No, I’m not back in fucking school,” Mickey knows that had too much heat on it. _Fuck. FUCK._ “But you’re not me. You cared about that shit. Thought you had a whole plan.” 

There’s another long pause. Then, finally, “Plans change.” 

Mickey doesn’t know what to say to that. 

*** 

He starts googling. He wants to find the number. And he wants to get an idea of how far they can go. He can do most of it on his phone, now. Moving to private, he can ask the questions he’d normally be terrified to see auto-fill on the family’s shared laptop. _“Good places to live if you’re gay.” “Cheapest places to live in America.”_

These two ideas don’t align. The places that Google tells him as safe -- the ones where they can blend and attract little notice -- those places are almost uniformly expensive. The safest places for him and Ian are some of the most expensive in the country. Then, when he gets to the more surprising answers -- Tempe, Arizona and Toledo, Ohio -- he starts to worry about distance. Is Ian ever going to do this with him? Will Ian -- who ran away to his fucking MOTHER in Wisconsin -- ever follow Mickey to a place far enough away from Chicago to be safe, when it’ll mean leaving his entire family? 

A long time ago, Ian was going to be a soldier. He would have left the continent. But gave that up. And fighting for God and country, or whatever the fuck motivated him, wasn’t the same thing as fighting for Mickey. He knows Ian loves him. He does. He just can’t quite believe that Ian would walk away from Fiona and Lip and Liam indefinitely so that he and Mickey can be safe.  
  
He doesn’t know. But he has to start to figure this shit out. He has to come up with a number. And right now, it’s high.  
  
***

Four days later, Svetlana has two “parties.” One with two girls at once, and then Masha again, on her own. His dad presses him when he catches him heading out dressed in shit Terry would just as easily have pawned or burned. His dad reacts a little to the idea that Mickey’s getting paid and that and it nags at him. It doesn’t feel friendly. Or disinterested. 

But when he has to drive again two days later, his father just grunts. He’s finally invited on a run the next day, but it’s short -- just crossing into Indiana -- and he’s back for Svetlana to call again with some last-minute shit. He has no idea what she’s doing, but the hustle seems to be working. 

He might look like he’s getting better. No one has told him to get his shit together for several days when Mickey wakes up short of breath and gripped with anxiety one morning solely because he hasn’t talked to Ian in a week. He drags himself up so that he’s sitting at the edge of the bed. Drops his head between his knees and forces himself to breathe. 

Mickey doesn’t experience separation the same way Ian does. He doesn’t get sick. He doesn’t end up in bed. No. He just has a constant hum of anxiety that never really goes away. It’s always been that way. From the first day, when they had bonded and Mickey had all but thrown Ian out of his house, he’d worried about him. Worried about loss and worried about rejection. Worried about how much he wanted his bond. Worried that Ian was just too fucking much for him to lose. 

He’s got to do something about that. So he’s trying a little experiment on himself to figure out how long Ian’s tether has gotten. It’s been seven days and Ian hasn’t agitated for a call. Ian hasn’t been agitating for much since he got sick. He sends texts, but they’re short and sound like they could come from anyone. And to be fair, that’s what Mickey’s been asking for. He just isn’t sensing a lot of need coming from Ian. He isn’t sensing much of anything. 

He’s also started to hate the ringing phone. He had no fucking idea how much value there was in those first few weeks, when Ian answered every call. Was always happy to hear from him. Now, even weeks past the whole lost phone thing, Mickey gets fucked up every time he’s kicked to voice mail.

It’s all fucking childish. He knows that. He understands that he needs to just dial Ian’s number and bite the bullet. Tell him about his conversation with Svetlana. Come up with a plan together. Ian has a job. Maybe it wasn’t all hand-to-mouth. Maybe they could try and save up together. 

But he’s always gotten fucked up by the silence. It’s what sent him running to the Kash & Grab three days after they’d bonded. He started to get more afraid of the silence than he was of what being with Ian would mean. Now the quiet comes FROM Ian. Being sick swallowed Ian’s playfulness and his sense of humour whole. And Mickey can feel how tense he is, how it ramps up as the call goes on. All those loaded fucking pauses. 

Ian used to be real fucking insistent about the five-day mark. There’s nothing on his phone to indicate that’s a problem, though. No text message urging him to call. Just a note from three days ago: _What are you doing for TG?_

Mickey hadn’t answered. He’s gotten wrapped up in the guilt, thinking about how Ian would be missing the Gallaghers. He taps out a message now:  
  
_Going to my uncles, probably. It’ll suck._

The phone makes a little “whoosh” noise he’s still getting used to as he sends it off. 

He lies back on the bed, cradling the phone and waits. 

All he gets is more silence. 

***

He’s late for Thanksgiving. When he gets there, it’s loud and there’s football on. Mickey has never warmed up to fucking football. Not really a sports guy in general because everything takes too fucking long. He can handle basketball. That’s about it. 

Lotta people lonely on the holidays, though, so even though they have less clients than they have people to serve them, Svetlana had two trips for Mickey to make. It was a good enough excuse. No one was going to miss him much and he was having a tough time with crowds. Even grabbing a drink at The Alibi felt like more of the general public than he could handle right now. 

His father’s right. He’s turning into a delicate flower. 

There’s about a three-to-one ratio of men to women. Sandy has gathered some of the younger cousins in a corner to play a game of Uno that will definitely end in violence. He gets clapped on the back by a few uncles, a few more cousins and a beer is thrust in his hand. His Aunt Polly forces a hug on him and then pushes him through to the dining room where all the food is laid out. A familiar panic is stirring as he fills a plate he’s not sure he can eat. It’s just so fucking loud. 

“Hey, Mick.” 

He glances towards the kitchen to see Jamie looming in the doorway. If he’s gonna have to talk to someone, Jamie’s not the worst fucking candidate. If Mickey tells him to shut up and leave him alone, he will. 

“Hey,” he shoots back, managing to contain himself. He’s pretty sure he sounds indifferent. Unconcerned. 

“You working?” 

“Yeah. Little bit.”  
  
Jamie nods towards the table. “Make sure you get some sweet potatoes. Fucking awesome. Pecans and shit.” 

Never really been his thing and he can see they’re heavily laden with marshmallows. Jamie’s always had a sweet tooth. He takes a bit anyway. He can’t even say why. 

A yell goes up from the living room, which either means that someone scored something, or his uncles are hatching some fucked up drunken plan they’re really into. Mickey freezes a second, then glances back to see Jamie looking at him. Thoughtful.  
  
Fuck. 

“You wanna maybe eat out back? Get a chance to talk?” 

Jamie’s never been the chattiest but there’s a suspicious degree of friendly coming off him right now. Mickey eyes his cousin then glances to the living room. Looks at his red-faced and animated father, talking with his uncles. Catches the kids starting to shove each other over a pick-up card massacre, and then turns back at Jamie. Newly affable Jamie. 

Why the fuck not? 

“Lead the fucking way,” he mutters, gathering up his paper plate and plastic silverware in one hand, his beer in the other. 

They sit together on the back stoop. It’s cold, but the food isn’t warm anymore anyway and it’s worth it, to get out of the din. Jamie’s a fucking giant next to him, an indication that Mickey takes after his mother in some key ways. He sits with his knees up high, arms draped between them, nursing his Old Style. 

“Snazzy coat.” 

“Yeah,” Mickey answers with his mouth full. “Warm enough, I guess.” 

“Your dad says you’re pimping.” 

Mickey feels a sinking sensation. No one in his family ever wants to talk just to fucking talk. Jamie wants something. 

“Nah. Protection, mainly.” 

“Isn’t that pimping?” 

Eh. Maybe.  
  
“Not doing that much. I just drive girls around. It’s like a job, you know?” 

“Sounds sweet. You get any freebies?” 

Fucking hell. 

“Kinda with the chick who put it all together.” 

“Cool.” 

They fall back into silence. Mickey takes a bite of the sweet potatoes. As predicted, basically inedible. 

“So. Ah. Kinda wanted to talk to you about something.” 

Here we go. Mickey declines to look up from his plate. “What’s up?” 

“Ah. Overheard something at Ronnie’s the other night. Cause I’m crashing there and all.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Your dad was there. Said… Sounded like he said you were bonded or some shit.” 

Mickey very nearly lets his plate fall into the dirt. 

“Seemed pretty upset about it.”  
  
It’s Jamie and all but Mickey finds he does still have some fucking killer instinct in him. Because if this is going anywhere at all, he will rip his cousin’s throat out with his teeth. “How’s this any of your fucking business?”  
  
“It’s not,” Jamie puts a hand up. “Just. I’m. I am, too.” 

Mickey looks up at him. 

“Tina,” Jamie explains. “Up in Kenosha.” 

“Congratu-fucking-lations.” 

“Haven’t told anybody. This family is fucked up about bonds. And I… I went on the apps, you know? Just to see. Just… Wasn’t even sure I’d find anything--” 

“What’s your fucking point, Jamie?” 

“My dad didn’t want me to do it. Didn’t want any of us to do it. But I found her. I found her, and…” Jamie shakes his head in wonder. “I don’t fucking know what is with this family, you know? I don’t know why they care. But it’s great. She’s great. Like, I’m gonna marry her. You know? It’s the best fucking thing.” 

Mickey keeps staring, eyebrows raised. His straight fucking cousin with his mid-western soulmate. How the fuck is this a problem? 

“I just,” Jamie adjusts his posture, looking more than a little uncomfortable. “Just. You and me, we used to be boys, you know? Like cousins, but. You had my fucking back. And I had yours. I know we kind of haven’t seen much of each other since you went to juvie and shit. But.” He exhales, hard. “Tina’s a--” he stops, then says the next word like it’s something he’s just fucking learned. “She’s Latina. A dreamer, you know? Like, here illegally. So it’s fucking complicated. And it’ll be some bullshit with my dad. For fucking sure. He hasn’t even met her yet, but it’ll be fucking ugly when it happens.” 

Mickey doesn’t doubt it. Tina’s probably not going to end up with ligature marks and a concussion, though. Jamie’s dad isn’t nearly the shitbox Terry is. 

“It’s probably stupid,” Jamie is still talking. “But I guess I thought I could tell you.” 

“Yeah,” Mickey grunts. “I won’t say shit.” 

“And, like. Doesn’t really sound like Terry likes your soulmate much. So you’d get it.” 

Mickey stares down at his plate. His appetite is gone.  
  
“Do Tina a favour,” he says, finally. “Keep her the fuck away from your dad.”

Jamie pushes out his breath like he’s just been hit in the stomach. “But--” 

“You found your soulmate? You’re in love and shit? Go back to Kenosha. Get married. Keep her out of Chicago and forget about our family.” 

Mickey puts his plate down and flat out chugs the rest of his beer while Jamie watches.

“That what you’d do?” Jamie asks, quietly. Like this is some kind of gotcha question. “You’d just leave the whole fucking family? Just like that?” 

It’s a dumb idea. It really fucking is. But he’s pissed and Jamie knows him better than most people. And if his dad is drunkenly blabbing about Ian, details or not, it’s probably just a matter of time before this shit gets out. 

“I got a fucking Aaron Bond, Jamie,” he says, getting to his feet. “My dad sees my soulmate? He’s fucking dead.” 

***

“Hey. You answered.” 

“Yeah. Sorry about before. I was just--” 

“Thanksgiving.”  
  
Ian snorts. “I had KFC with-- Um. Yeah.” 

“Hope you sprung for the three-piece.” 

“Of course. Fries, gravy. No wing.” 

Mickey’s throat tightens. Fucking delicate flower.  
  
“Listen, can’t talk long,” he clears his throat, hard. “Got family shit.” 

“Yeah.”  
  
“I’m. Um.” Fuck. He bows his head, his face heating. This is fucking sad. “Miss you.” 

There’s silence. It catches Mickey off guard. Ian’s usually so fast to respond to shit like that. 

“Fuck,” Ian mutters and it kicks Mickey’s heart off like a jackhammer. 

“What?” 

“Nothing, just… rain,” Ian sighs. “Sorry. Probably shouldn’t tell you that. You’ll go stalk me on a weather satellite or some shit.” 

“Nah. You can tell me about rain,” Mickey exhales. He glances towards the window just in time to see a few large drops splatter against the pane. His insides turn cold. _He fucking wouldn’t..._

“Miss you, too, Mick.” Ian interrupts his slightly unhinged thoughts. He wouldn’t. He _wouldn’t_. Ian can not possibly be that stupid. 

“Yeah,” Mickey manages. “Look. I should go.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, I know. Thanks for calling.” 

“Happy Thanksgiving.” 

“Thanks.” 

*******

_National Weather Service -- Short-range Weather Prediction: Rain expected in areas surrounding Lake Michigan, across New England and throughout the Pacific Northwest._

***

It nags at him for days. Probabilities mostly. He replays what Ian said over and over again -- was he inside? Mickey had the impression he had been. Why was he distracted by the rain then? Did it just start? Was it just getting particularly bad? Was it the same fucking rain that had hit Mickey’s window? Just what the fuck?

When shit like this gets inside Mickey’s brain, he can’t seem to get it to leave and he finally decides to google symptoms of Bond Separation Malise and yes, of fucking course ‘obsessive thoughts’ is a symptom. But so it everything. Anxiety, depression, headaches, body aches, stomach aches, flu-like symptoms. Inattention and hyperfocus. Loss of appetite and over-eating. Any feeling of being unsettled, unhappy or just fucking lonely is apparently a sign that you have Bond Separation Malise. By his estimation, Mickey figures he’s has it his entire fucking life. 

So he does what he can to ignore the rain. And it might involve a little bit of ignoring Ian. He leaves a few texts unchecked until he can be alone. He manages to avoid the all-caps inquiry: ARE YOU IN FUCKING CHICAGO?

He lasts 18 fucking hours before he calls Ian again. 

“Hey.” 

“Hi.”  
  
Mickey chews at his lip. “You asleep?”

“What time is it?” 

“I guess that’s a fucking yes. It’s 11:30.” 

“Worked late.” 

“You working at a fucking Waffle House? What the fuck is with these hours?” 

Fuck. He’s coming in too hot. But Ian lets out a sigh. 

“Mmm. I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” He takes a breath. He’s gotta calm the fuck down. Ian’s ok. It feels like fucking year since he’s made a joke, so take that as a good sign. Calm the fuck down. “You need to sleep more?” 

“Fucking exhausted.”

“Ok, Gallagher. Sleep tight and shit.”  
  
“Mmm. Mickey.”  
  
“Yeah?” 

“Night.” 

***

That night, driving Irina to the nicest hotel they’d been booked in yet, Mickey gets the opportunity to work out his frustrations on a drunk idiot who decides to complain about the services he received. It’s swift and brutal and Svetlana seems very happy about it. Mickey barely talks to her as he drives both her and Irina home. They talk to each other in Russian and he doesn’t give a fuck. Once he drops off the car, he hits The Alibi and drinks until he feels a little -- just a little -- less angry. 

He’s unsteady on the walk home. He checks his phone and sees that it’s 12:30 and he has one text from Ian, sent six hours earlier: _You ok?_

No. Not ok. He calls before he can stop himself. It’s too late, but he doesn’t care. 

And Ian doesn’t fucking answer.

And that is just fucking fine. He’s tired and his hand hurts because he’s somehow out of practice with fucking hitting things, and sure. Maybe he’d like to talk to his soulmate. The fucking person he loves. But Ian is probably asleep. And probably should be. He has a job now. He’s still getting over that epic fucking illness. He tells himself all of that, as he stumbles in the front door. That's all fine. He feels fine. 

He sheds his coat just inside the door to his room and then crashes down on the bed with astounding force. He wants to have sex, he realizes. 

It’s so fucked up that it’s a _realization_. He hasn’t had sex since Ian left. He’s amazed at how little it’s motivated him. He’s not even getting off that much on his own because half the time he’s too consumed by the million little things he’s miserable about to even think about it. 

THAT is probably a fucking symptom of Bond Separation Malaise, too. Fucking… impotence? No. He can get it up. He just… 

He wants Ian. 

It’s so fucking stupid. He feels like a swoony teenaged girl. His conversations with Ian have become completely sexless. That’s probably Mickey’s fault, too. He wasn't responsive when Ian was flirting with him early on, and then Ian stopped. And he’s still sick and everything, but _fuck_. They’d always had sex. Some kind of sexual energy was always buzzing along in the background and right now it feels like something got unplugged. It’s fucking unsettling. He tries to think of the last remotely sexual thing Ian said to him he thinks it was a whole month ago. 

Like… what the fuck? Driving women to go fuck men who pay for the privilege, he’s around the most transactional sex possible and maybe it’s getting to him because he doesn’t even really feel horny so much as he feels deeply, deeply lonely. 

And alienated. Whatever lingering belief he might have in his own heterosexuality is dying on the vine. All the performative sexiness. The short dresses and the perfume and the red, red lips and the heavily made-up eyes. He sees guys' eyes light up when they open the hotel room doors and he just can’t relate. Ian Gallagher with his shirt off, on the other hand…  
  
Mickey rolls over onto his back. He closes his eyes and thinks about that, AND about Ian smiling at him. Which is hokey as fuck, but it fucking did something to him. Ian’s grin. Ian burying his face in his neck and breathing on him. Ian so happy that they were together, so happy that they were going to have sex, even when they’d had sex three hours earlier. He reminds himself about the enthusiasm and how Ian’s eyes would rest on him. How fucking good it felt to be wanted like that. Wanted like nothing else mattered. 

And ok. He can feel that little spark of arousal. Arousal from memory, which isn’t the easiest shit for him right now. He’d kill to have a picture of Ian. It might get HIM killed, but still. He thinks about it a lot. Thinks about how much it’d help to just confirm that this shit he remembers actually exists in the world. 

Mickey groans as he kicks his way out of his jeans. He doesn’t know if it makes him feel better or worse. But he puts his hand on himself and bites his lip as he remembers Ian kissing his neck and whispering shit to him that he’d never fucking put up with any other time. Murmuring to him -- _You’re so fucking hot. You look so good like this. Just so good_ \-- while he pushed him up against the storage room wall at the Kash & Grab. He tries not to think about how long it’s been. He tries not to think about how long it’ll be. He just thinks about Ian and how fucking easy it always is with him. How, even when he is being fucking ridiculous, Mickey just wants him. With all his fucking _“I want to take you to bed”_ bullshit and how he’d talk about wanting to wake up together. How Mickey would TELL Ian that he was being fucking ridiculous, but he’d still feel warm and dizzy and wanted. It was so fucking good to be wanted. Ian pressing up against him. Putting his hands over Mickey’s and holding him still in a way that Mickey loved. He missed that. He missed feeling overwhelmed. He missed shuddering when Ian kissed behind his ear or dragged his hands across his belly. He missed feeling so unquestionably safe that he could completely let go. Being so fucking turned on he could barely think, but he could still _read_. He could still feel all the ways he made Ian feel good. That was the best fucking part. Nothing got to Mickey the way that did. Watching Ian’s eyes sliding closed and his mouth falling open because of how Mickey made him feel. It was the best. It was the best fucking thing he’d ever had. 

He comes hard thinking about it. Hard enough that it feels a little satisfying. A little like he’s taken the edge off. A little like Ian’s there with him. A little. 

Fucking sap. 

***

**December**

***

He calls at 8:30 the next morning. and gets no answer. 

Then he calls at 6:30 that night. 

He calls at 8:00. 

9:30

Midnight

2 AM. 

Fine. 5 Fucking AM. 

This shit is turning him into a psychopath. 

***

_Hey_

_Don’t freak out._

_I have a new number._

_What the fuck?_

_New phone. Call me._

***

“Hey.” 

“Hey.” 

Ian’s voice sounds different. Crisper. Warmer. _Happier_. Mickey can feel the smile and he finds himself smiling too, struggling to sit up in bed and ignoring the gentle throbbing in his head. 

“How’d you get a fucking iPhone?” 

“How’d you know it’s an iPhone?” 

“Messages were blue. They’re only blue when it’s another iPhone.” 

“Oh,” Ian sounds a little disconcerted. “Where’d _you_ get a fucking iPhone?” 

“Around.” 

“Yeah. Ok. Same here.” 

“Another one of your random do-gooders?”  
  
“Kinda,” Ian blows out his breath. “But not really. It’s just an old phone from a guy who got a new phone.” 

Sounds fucking familiar. “You making friends where you are?” 

“Mmm,” Ian is non-commital. “Don’t know how long I’ll be here.”

Mickey can’t say why, but his heart sinks. “Thought you got a job.” 

“I think the long-term opportunities for growth are kinda limited. So.”

“Yeah, you gotta watch out for that.” 

“Mmmm.” 

They fall into silence and Mickey tries to come up with something to say. Conversation is fucking impossible when you can’t ask any questions. Not even about the the fucking weather, because if Ian tells him it’s cold and overcast… 

“Hey. If you got an iPhone, you can send me a picture.” 

Mickey’s face immediately heats. “What the fuck you want a picture for?” 

“I mean, why _wouldn’t_ I want a fucking picture?” 

It’s a solid point. And Mickey realizes he has no argument against it. Ian doesn’t live with a homophobic, murderous rageaholic. 

“What kinda picture do you want?” 

“What kind of picture can I get?”

And there it fucking is. After a whole month. That was flirting. That was his soulmate talking to him like they like to fuck each other. The grin spreads across Mickey’s face like it’s cracking ice. And he knows that anyone who walked in at that moment would know exactly who he’s talking to. Not by name, maybe. But they’d know. 

“Nothing incriminating,” Mickey tries to force some grump into his voice. To play along a little bit. 

“Haven’t seen you in so long,” Ian says so sweetly he feels his insides melt. “I’m not picky.” 

Mickey pulls the phone away from his ear. He knows he looks like shit. He won the fight last night, but the guy clipped his brow and probably left a mark. He also just woke up, he’s hungover -- he’s fucking perpetually hungover -- and he smiling like a complete moron.  
  
But what the fuck. It’s his soulmate. Ian’s supposed to be all in. So he reverses his camera and snaps a picture without giving it too much fucking scrutiny. 

True to prediction, it’s not great. But he’s probably not getting to great any time soon. 

He shoots it off and then puts the phone back to his ear. “Ok. Done. Satisfied?” 

“Fuck,” he can tell Ian is happy. “It won’t fucking download. I’m gonna have to get on wifi.” 

“You got wifi?” 

“I got a Starbucks down the street. Put that into your Terminator computer. I got Starbucks and weather here.” 

He thinks he’s being cute. He might actually _be_ objectively cute. But Mickey knows he’s going to be looking at Starbucks locations in the greater Chicagoland area before the day’s over.

“So what about you? Do I get something back?”

“Probably have to send it from the Starbucks, too. Hope what you sent me was PG.” 

“Mmmm. Rated R for disturbing scenes.” 

“Yeah?” Ian’s voice shifts a little. “You ok?” 

Mickey sighs and drops onto his back, head at the foot of the bed. More than a little dramatic. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.” 

“Aye, aye.” 

Mickey smiles a little but finds he can’t verbalize right now. He’s had a fucking dozen people tell him to get his shit together in one way or another in the last few weeks. Only Ian has sounded worried, though. That might not be fair, but that was the thing about soulmates. You know they’re telling the truth. There’s no point in lying. 

“Easier to text on these things,” Ian ventures. Mickey almost laughs. 

“Yeah..” 

“Probably shouldn’t, though. You probably want me to be careful…?” 

“Yep,” Mickey stops there. It’s too painful to say what he wants. Mostly because he can’t fucking have it. 

“Better ringer on this one, though.” 

He nods, smiling again. Fucking tears in his eyes now. And he knows the silence is getting weird, but fuck. He’s missed this. It’s been too fucking long. And now that Ian sounds like _Ian_ he can barely participate in the conversation. 

“Did I lose you?”

Mickey groans. He finds his voice through sheer strength of will. “Nah, I’m here.”  
  
“Boring you?” 

Mickey rubs his eyes with his thumb. “No, I’m good. Just. Good to hear your voice.” 

“Yeah.” He can hear Ian’s smile again. “You too.” 

“Ok, fucking stop that.” 

“Stop what?” 

“That voice. You’re like ten minutes away from some kind of _‘you hang up, no YOU hang up’_ bullshit.” 

“You’d have to participate for that bullshit to work.”

“Fuck you.” 

“You don’t want me to hang up.” 

Ian sounds pleased with himself. Like this is some kind of fucking discovery.  
  
“Yeah, well. I guess I can handle talking to you. In small doses.” 

Now the silence is on Ian’s side. 

“I know I’ve missed some calls --” 

“I get it. Bad ringer.” 

“Well. And work. I’m--” 

“Don’t gotta tell me.” 

“I can tell you my schedule, can’t I?” 

Fuck. Mickey doesn’t even know what his brain is going to do with weather, Starbucks and work hours. He shakes his head. “Tell me as little as fucking possible. Need to know, Army.” 

Ian laughs at that. “Can’t even remember the last time you called me that.” Ian lowers his voice a little and asks, “Hey. You alone?” 

Lust rushes through Mickey dangerously fast. He swears he breaks out into a full-on sweat. “Ah. Yeah. I--” 

“MICKEY!” 

There’s a thunderous slam on the bedroom door that literally shakes it on its hinges. Mickey bolts upright. Jesus Christ. 

“Get the FUCK up, already!” his father calls through the door. “Don’t got all fucking day.” 

“I’m fucking coming!” Mickey yells back. His heart is pounding in his chest and he takes a few breaths, trying to inch himself back from panic. His father didn’t hear. He couldn't have heard. If he’d heard something incriminating he’d have kicked down the fucking door.

“You gotta go?” 

He’d almost fully forgotten Ian was still there, but the knowledge rushes back, along with a howling rage at being effectively denied once again.  
  
“Yeah,” he tries to swallow. His mouth is the fucking Sahara all of the sudden. “But. I’ll try and call again. When I’m alone.” 

“Ok,” Ian’s voice is all soft again because apparently, he hates him. “I’ll send you a picture in the meantime. G-rated.” 

“PG-rated.” 

“Yeah, ok. PG.” 

***

His father barely fucking needs him for anything. Just makes Mickey drive with him a few blocks to pick up some 2x4s. Mickey doesn’t even know for what, but it’s probably not home repair. 

When they get back, he and Iggy are assigned a job sorting and inventorying the guns that were retrieved and filed down the week before. Mickey is jittery the whole fucking time and does his best to hold it in. His phone goes off around 11:30 but he avoids checking until he can escape to his room. 

_You look good._

Liar. Mickey looks like shit. But Ian’s also sent a picture. And Mickey is officially easy as fuck, because he’s broken out into a sweat again. 

He immediately googles “how to hide picture on iPhone” because he’s never going to delete it. The article tells him anyone who has access to his phone will be able to access the hidden folder, but he doesn’t think his dad is that enterprising. Or he just decides it’s worth the risk because this is maybe the only thing that’s made him happy -- really and truly happy -- for months. He leans back against his bedroom door and brings the image up again.  
  
Fucking beautiful. He’s got a grey beanie pushed back so his red hair is peaking out. He looks sleepy, but he’s smiling. Flipping Mickey off -- because P fucking G. Looks like he has some kind of black shit around his eyes for some fucking reason? Whatever. He doesn’t care. Ian’s looking straight into the camera and smiling in a way that makes MIckey’s heart seize. 

It’s a picture worth dying for. Not to be too fucking dramatic or anything. 

*** 

The picture legitimately makes things better. Takes the edge off, at least. Because fucking Christmas is upon Southside and everywhere Mickey goes, he hears a Christmas song, usually sung by some pop diva, about how the person they love isn’t around for fucking Christmas. 

And Mickey hates Christmas. Always has. Almost certainly always will. He has no fucking sentiment about this holiday. But if he hears the words _“Baby, please come home”_ one more fucking time… 

He’s nervous to text Ian. Deletes the threads immediately. And Ian doesn’t say much over text anyway. Oblique little phrases. One morning he wakes up to find Ian has sent him one sentence. _“Going to bed.”_ **  
** **  
** Ian sent it at 5 AM. Mickey just stares. What the fuck does that mean? 

_Going to bed._ I’ve been out partying all night. 

_Going to bed._ Don’t call me. 

_Going to bed_. Because I work in a Waffle House. 

Just… What the fuck. 

He feels fucking helpless and frustrated and every response he starts is angry, so he leaves it alone.  
  
Fine. Going to bed. Talk to you whenever. 

He lights up a cigarette and scowls at the opposite wall while he smokes. After a few minutes, he picks up the phone again and digs into his files until he finds the picture. Looks at Ian’s smile. His eyes. That sliver of red hair. 

He looks at Ian and he tells himself not to freak out. It helps. But he still can’t figure out how to answer the text. 

***

Mandy’s either dumped Lip or he’s dumped her. Mickey’s not sure when it happened, but she’s bringing around some silent, unhappy looking dude named Kenyatta. Mickey considers whether or not he should ask her about it. Do they do that now? He can’t imagine what fucking help he’d be. She’s already got her own god damn brandy bottle and jelly jar. 

The closest they come to getting into it is one night when Mickey’s gotten home from driving and Mandy’s stretched across the couch on her stomach, watching _Say Yes to the Dress Atlanta._ Mickey hovers in the doorway, then tosses his coat over a chair and goes to retrieve a couple of beers from the kitchen. She looks up when he nudges her with the end of one bottle, looking like he’s just roused her from a trance. But she sits, takes it from him and rearranges herself on the couch allowing a little room for him to sit. When he flops down, she twists open her beer, leans back against the armrest, and tucks her toes under his thigh. 

He’d normally swat at her for that. But her feet are cold. And whatever. He opens his own beer and watches in silence for a good ten minutes before the show gets to him and he has to say something. 

“These women are all rude as fuck.” 

“Yep.” 

“Do they always bring ten people who fucking hate them to shop for wedding dresses?” 

“They always bring at least _one_ person who hates them. I think it’s how you get on the show.” 

“She needs to punch her maid-of-honour in the throat. Once. It’d solve everything.”

Mandy snorts and digs her toes into the cushions. They don’t usually do Christmas gifts but maybe he could pick Mandy up a pair of slippers or something. This house is fucking cold sometimes. 

“I like that one,” Mandy says a few minutes later, a little wistful. “With the drop waist and the beading?” 

Mickey doesn’t fully know what she’s talking about but he nods. “Yeah. It’s pretty. You’d look good in something like that.” 

Mandy draws back one leg and pokes his thigh with her foot. When he looks at her in annoyance she smiles.  
  
“Thanks.” 

He nods and raises his beer in a salute. Maybe he isn’t entirely useless. 

*** 

He can’t get used to how fucking hard it is to get Ian on the phone. He never succeeds on the first try. And if he has luck one day, he wants to try again immediately the next. But they can’t talk every fucking day. He knows himself. If he started to talk to Ian every day then he’ll want to talk to him twice a day. And he will get caught. Just like they did last time. 

He catches him once on the street, and Mickey knows he sounds petulant because he wants to go back to that conversation they had before. With the chaste fucking pictures. He wants to talk to Ian while he’s alone and even though he knows the shoe used to be on the other foot, he’s mad about it now. 

He tries to hint that he wants to talk to Ian alone, but Ian’s distracted and some fucking asshole -- male by the muffled voice -- pulls his attention leaving Mickey hanging on the phone like a bitch. Like he’s fucking anybody. 

He hangs up. Ian does not call back. 

Twenty minutes later he sends Ian a text. 

_Sorry. Had to go. People._

He knows Ian will read that and think he’s saying his dad walked in. He doesn’t know if Ian will buy it, because maybe he knows Mickey too well and will figure out that he hung up in frustration, having a temper tantrum because he isn’t the most important thing in Ian’s life right now. 

But he can hope. 

It nags at him, though. And a few days later he wakes up in the early morning hours from a full-on nightmare about Ian and bad phone connections. Because he is losing his fucking mind. 

He can even remember the details, but he’s upset. Almost teary, heart in his throat. Something about Ian changing his mind? Not coming home? But he couldn’t get a good phone connection to tell Ian why he was wrong. It was frustrating and far scarier than it should be. Mickey has been having nightmares his entire fucking life. He can’t remember the last time he was this unnerved by a dream. And it was about bad cell reception. 

There’s a half-drunk beer by the bed, warm and flat, but he chugs it anyway. His stomach is no happier to have something in it and he manages to bite back an urge to wretch. 

Ok, fuck it. It’s 4 AM but he will wake the fucker up. It’s an emergency. He is about to go full T2 on this situation and only Ian’s voice is going to calm him down. 

The phone picks up on the third ring and Mickey can already feel his blood pressure abating. Thank you. Thank Christ. Thank fucking everything. 

“Mickey?” 

“Hey,” Mickey breathes. “Hi.”

“Hey!” Ian’s voice brightens significantly. And this is where Mickey hears it -- there is the distinct sound of people. Lots of people. “Hang on,” Ian is telling him. “I’m on the fire escape. I’m trying --”  
  
“It’s ok.” Mickey’s tongue is numb. “Sounds like you’re busy.” 

“Afterparty. Fuck. Should I say that? They have afterparties everywhere.” 

They do not have fucking afterparties everywhere. They have them in places where there are clubs. In cities. 

“Am I interrupting?” 

Yeah. He’s a bitch. An angry, jealous, tearful, freaked-out bitch. 

“No, it’s ok. It’s cool. They’re cool people. They do… Like they’re… They do interesting shit. I dunno. You’d like them.” 

Mickey can hear it now. Ian is not sober. He’s not quite slurring, but he’s just a bit too… unfocused. A bit too slow. 

“Yeah, sounds like they’re real fucking cool.” He draws in his breath. He can’t say any of the half-formed things that are floating in his head. “You staying there tonight?” 

“No,” Ian says, vaguely. “I’ll get an Uber.” 

Fucking Uber. He’s in a city. He’s absolutely, 100% in a city. He had better not be in fucking Chicago. 

He _can’t_ be in Chicago. 

Maybe he’s in New York. Or Boston or some shit. Somewhere safer than here. Somewhere he might find people who want to keep him. Somewhere he’ll decide to stay.

“Ian,” Mickey grunts his name in mounting panic. 

“Yeah?” 

“Are you ok?” 

“Yeah,” Ian says vaguely. “Why wouldn’t I be?” 

Yeah. Why wouldn’t he be? Why would he be doing anything but hanging out at some party at four in the fucking morning on a Thursday while Mickey’s waking up in a cold sweat? 

“Mickey?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Do you ever just… Look at the lights?” 

What the fuck? Who the fuck is he even talking to? Why is it like this so much of the time? Why can’t he just have a fucking conversation with his fucking soulmate? Who apparently doesn’t find it at all weird that he’s called at him in the middle of the god damn night. Why is that so impossible to pull off? 

“Why the fuck would I be looking at lights?”

“It’s Christmas.” 

“Not yet, it’s not.”  
  
“I like the lights,” Ian says as if he has absolutely no clue that Mickey is losing his fucking mind right now. “It’s sad, but it’s nice, too. They’re all… popcorn.” 

“Popcorn.” 

“Yeah.” 

Mickey just stares straight ahead. Maybe he’s still asleep. Maybe this is still the nightmare. 

“You really are feeling no pain right now, huh?” 

“No. I’m talking to you.” 

Mickey snorts and his eyes fill with tears at pretty much the same moment. Ian isn’t even flirting. He just says it like it’s obvious. He can be so fucking _sweet_. On the other hand, the lights are popcorn. 

“Are you going to remember any of this?” Mickey exhales, dropping back onto the bed.  
  
“Hmm?” 

Ok. Yeah. None of this should be admissible in court. He’s talking to someone, but he wouldn’t strictly call it Ian. Mickey lets him go, and is a little gratified when Ian sounds a bit sad about it. But he can also hear someone calling a name in the background and it sounds like he’s being summoned back inside. Back to his party and his friends. 

It hurts. But it’s also fucking comforting. He doesn’t want Ian to feel like he does. But he doesn’t like the idea that he’s in this alone. 

*** 

It’s a decision. He thinks about it, evaluates and decides to go looking for some kind of sexual contact. He makes the choice the same way he sometimes decides to drink hard liquor instead of beer or goes for Xanax or Ambien. It’s clinical and it never stops feeling that way. 

It unsettles him. Ian is the only person he’s ever had any kind of commitment with and it wasn't like they talked about it before Ian decided he wanted to use the word “boyfriend”. And it’s not like he didn’t know things were different with Ian. The bond, sure. That was part of it. But there was also the fact that the whole year and a half he and Ian were together, Mickey didn’t want anyone else. Not is a way that would result in action. Finding other people attractive felt distant and strange. Like everyone else was in black and white and only Ian was in colour. 

That feeling hasn’t gone away. It’s alive enough in him that, every step of the way, he asks himself what the fuck he thinks he’s doing. And he knows -- he’s trying to feel something normal. Something other than broken and lost and desperate for something he can’t have. He’s trying not to hunt Ian down solely because he wants him more than any other person on earth. And maybe this will help.  
  
This should help. 

He’d kinda thought hooking up with random people in no-strings-attached situations would be a semi-regular part of his life, with Ian gone. Kinda like it had been before Ian. He’d also thought he might just stick to chicks. But he’d lost his ability to get it up at all with women and even with these guys in the park… He finds himself looking for people where, if he closes his eyes and never really looks too close, they _could_ be Ian. Especially if he has a couple of drinks first. 

He wants it to be satisfying. He wants it to help.  
  
It just fucking doesn’t. 

***

Mickey suspects his dad is trying to starve him out. 

Whatever fucking money Mickey has, at any given time, has usually been up to the whim of his father, unless Terry was in jail. When Terry was around, shit was happening and he’d expect Mickey and his brothers to help out on demand. When jobs were done -- successfully -- he’d pay them out. His largess was entirely mood dependent and sometimes Mickey was flush and sometimes he was skint. He’d figured out how to roll with that a long time ago. 

He’d been mostly skint since he got caught with Ian. His dad was all over him for the first few months, once Mickey was back on his feet, but he wasn’t tossing him a lot of money. It got better in October, but then Mickey had fucked up and since then the errands and responsibilities he’d been given were minor and the money was mostly non-existent. He didn’t have rent, food was at least a little communal, and he was still dealing a bit. And he’d always been allowed to keep what he made dealing. The petty shit. But his dad was making her he stayed poor. He was sure of that. 

He tried to keep his costs low, just spending on booze, cigarettes, pharmaceuticals -- and pot if he couldn’t get those. He had a cell phone bill. So he’s been trying, hard as he can, to put away most of what he’s getting from Svetlana. 

The money is … ok. Not great -- especially the first few weeks -- but Christmas is definitely leading to an upswing. They’re still small-time but getting this shit started before the holidays isn’t the worst idea in the world. The second week of December, Svetlana counts off $350, the new highwater mark, and hands it to him. An entire week of ferrying her girls around the city. 

“Not bad, yes?” 

Not great, either. But for the hours he puts in… It’ll do. 

“You come up with number?” 

Mickey shrugs. 

“Come up with number,” she advises. “And do something else besides drink all the time. You become alcoholic, everything go to shit.” 

“I didn’t ask for your fucking input, did I?” 

Svetlana -- who drinks like a fucking grizzly on steroids -- shrugs. 

“Is my business. Literally.” 

“I have a number,” he lies. “I have this under fucking control.” 

***  
  
_“Hey.”_

MIckey is halfway through a grilled cheese sandwich when the text appears. He’s leaning against the kitchen counter while his Uncles and dad argue in the living room. Iggy and Jamie are sitting, both looking miserable, at the dining room table while Mickey does his best to just stay the fuck out of it. He’s scrolling through his phone already when the text appears. He tells himself to leave it -- but fuck. It’s been almost a week since he talked to Ian and this is like sighting Big Foot right now. Ian. Middle of the day. Possibly alone. He glances at his father, who is bellowing and pointing and he decides to risk it. 

_“Hey.”_

_“Talk?”_

Fuck, yes. He can sneak out for a few minutes. He can risk it. 

_“Yeah. Gimme a second.”_

Mickey slips the phone into his back pocket and keeps working on his sandwich. Be cool, he tells himself. Just finish your sandwich and then… go down the hall to the bathroom. Lock the door. Turn on the shower. Talk to Ian. Totally normal shit. 

“MICKEY! Get your ass in here.” 

Why can’t it ever be fucking easy? 

Mickey takes a breath and heads into the living room, doing his best to look bored while feeling like his head is crashing between two cymbals. “What’s up?”

“Mickey, you’re good with numbers. Tell your father he’s a fucking clown.” 

If Mickey was capable of finding anything fucking funny at this point he might have to stop himself from cracking up at the look of complete fucking outrage on his father’s face that barely registers before Uncle Ronnie is sent flying into the armchair across the room. 

It takes ten minutes to pull the brothers apart -- partly because Iggy gets an elbow to the nose and bleeds all over every fucking thing -- and Ronnie STILL wants Mickey to look at some numbers that Mickey can barely even read. And every second he’s getting further from his magical window to talk to Ian. Instead, he’s surrounded by bellowing Milkoviches and Iggy sitting on the floor, gingerly touching his nose and wondering aloud if it’s broken. 

Jesus Christ, he hates it here.

“I can’t figure out what you’re fucking fighting about,” Mickey finally says, pushing the papers into Jamie’s chest. “I need to call Svet before she leaves. Try to make some fucking sense of this, will ya?” 

Mickey’s barely formed plan sneaking into the bathroom has been blown to fucking hell both by circumstance and Iggy crawling off to see if he can stop the bleeding. He can’t fucking believe how quickly everything just went to shit as he bursts out the door into the backyard. His hands are actually shaking as he pulls out his phone. Fuck. FUCK. 

“Hey,” 

Ian answers almost immediately and Mickey expects the relief that usually comes with hearing his soulmate’s voice, but it is not forthcoming. It’s also instantly clear that Ian is not alone in his room someplace, but is actually calling from the center of a fucking tornado. 

“Where the fuck are you?” Mickey bites out. “The wind is crazy.”

“You wanna know where I am?”

Jesus Christ, Gallagher. Mickey starts to pace. “You don’t have to give me coordinates. Just where the fuck are you? Inside a fucking turbine?”

“Roof.” Ian says more, but Mickey can’t make it out. _Buildings with roofs and fire escapes, in cities with Starbucks, Uber and weather._

“Can barely fucking hear you.”

There’s some shuffling and the wind cuts a bit. “Better?”

“A bit, yeah.” Mickey eyes the backyard. Maybe he should just smoke a cigarette or something. His heart is still hammering in his chest and he knows he’s coming in hot. He just -- fuck! -- he can’t seem to chill out. He rubs his fingers back and forth over his mouth a few times and then manages, “You doing ok?”

“Does it matter? I mean. Grand scheme. If I feel like shit, it doesn’t change anything.”

Ian’s response hits Mickey like a bucket of ice water. He’s blown back by it, realizing that the entire time Ian’s been away -- the whole fucking time -- he’s been distant, distracted, sick, sleepy and absent. But he’s never been pissed. Not once. 

“Just asking a fucking question.”

“I feel like shit. There’s your answer.”

Later, Mickey will tell himself that it’s fucking reasonable. That Ian gets to be angry. This whole thing fucking sucks. 

But in the moment, it stings. In the moment, Mickey gets defensive. 

“You wanted me to call just to tell me that?”

“Kinda. Yeah. Kinda wanted you to know.”

“What do you want me to do, Ian?”

The fucking second the name passes Mickey’s lips, the back door slams and he jerks his head up, looking -- he would lay all the fucking money he has on it -- like he’s been caught. And it’s the worst person. His father, red-faced and wrathful already, is staring at him. Right as Ian decides to get to the heart of the matter. 

“Just had a bad day,” his voice is heavy. “And I fucking miss you.”

“Uh huh,” Mickey’s heart is in his throat. “Yeah. Got it.”

“Got it.” 

“Yeah,” Mickey nods, turning away from his father. “I got it. Same here.”

“You never have bad days?”

“They're all bad days.” And that is the truest thing he’s said in a while. 

“Know the feeling,” Ian sounds so real as he says that. So familiar. “Fuck, Mickey.”

He keeps thinking he’s out of ways to feel pain, but the weight of it, the recognition, mixed with the fact that the back of Mickey’s neck might burst into flame from the heat of his father’s glare… He risks a look back. Terry has taken out a pack of cigarettes and is settling onto the top step. 

“Can’t do this now.”

There’s a pause on the line. 

“When CAN you do this?”

“I can’t--” Mickeys’ face flushes. He feels fucking transparent and he has got to get the fuck off the phone. He darts over to the far corner of the yard and lowers his voice. “It’s a lot fucking harder when you do this.”

“Do what?”

“Tell me shit like this. Let me know it fucking sucks where you are.”

That’s true. It always has been. He already feels like his organs are all on the outside of his body. Adding Ian’s misery to the pile of things to worry about is beyond what he can handle. That sucks. He knows it does. But fuck! Ian has his mother. He has whoever’s fucking parties he’s at. And maybe Mickey should tell him he’s hanging on by a fucking thread, but what good does it do either of them to know that? 

Here’s what good it does: His soulmate might not sound so hurt when he responds with, “that so.”

“Yeah,” Mickey’s brain is pulling in about five different directions. Can his dad hear? If his dad can’t hear, is he suspicious that Mickey’s trying to be quiet? Why the fuck is he even out here if he doesn’t want to fuck with him? 

“And,” he tries again, “We gotta keep doing this, so. Just. If it’s real bad, let me know. But don’t--”

“Whine?”

_Holy fuck._

“Not what I said.”

“Next time I break a nail, I’ll keep it to myself.”

Well. At least now he sounds like he’s actually having a fight with his fucking girlfriend. Feeling the damage as the words leave his mouth, Mickey still lets out an impotent, “Don’t be like that.”

And yeah. It’s the wrong thing to say because it takes a good thirty seconds for Ian to answer. 

“I should let you go.”

“Ok,” Mickey exhales, giving the fuck up. “Ok, yeah.” What made Mickey think he was going to get to have an ACTUAL fucking conversation with his soulmate in the middle of the afternoon? It’s a fucking fantasy. 

“Yeah.”

He probably hangs up too fast. He’ll try Ian back later. Or he’ll text. He’ll do something. When his blood pressure moves out of the red zone and his father isn’t looking at him like he’s picturing his head mounted over a fireplace. 

“Svetlana got her fucking panties in a twist?” Terry calls over. 

Mickey shrugs and slides the phone back into his pocket. Tries to smile. It’s not gonna win him any awards. “She’s always pissed about something.” 

“Women usually are.” 

_Ha. Yeah. Can’t live with them, can’t murder your father in his sleep._

“She’ll get over it. Uncle Ronnie still here?” 

“Why should I fucking care if he is?” 

“Well,” Mickey tries again. “I can take a look at whatever the fuck you were fighting about. See if I can help.” 

“Oh, can ya?” His father sneers. “Can you help us big dumb ogres figure it out? Fucking pussy!”

Mickey lets it wash over him. The contempt. The disgust. The confirmation that whatever peace he’d managed to create in the fall is fucking over. It simplifies things, he decides. When his father just hates him, things get a lot easier. 

“See ya inside, Pops,” he mutters, as he walks up the stairs and back into the house. 

***

That night, sitting in yet another parking lot, waiting on yet another text message from Irina, Mickey tries to message Ian. He can’t find a way to say “sorry about today” that doesn’t sound lame.  
  
_Sorry. I had to go. My father was watching._

_Sorry. I wanted to talk. I just couldn’t make it work._

_My family’s a fucking nightmare. What the fuck do you expect?_

_I feel like shit all the time. Fucking constantly. We can’t both feel like shit. One of us has to be at least a little bit ok. I don’t make the rules._

_Fuck it. I give up. Just tell me where to find you._

He sends nothing. Because he’s a pussy. 

***

He should have seen it coming. For a lot of reasons, but most of all because Mickey’s father is always at his fucking worst around the holidays. But it still feels like it comes out of fucking nowhere. 

Friday night. Mickey comes home from driving and his dad and Iggy are both in the living room. Fucking WWE on the TV. It’s a scene he’s walked past a dozen times. He and Iggy haven’t been talking much since there’s always daylight between whichever one of them is in the Golden Child slot and the ones stuck trying to make something up. But that night, when he stops in the doorway, Iggy glances up and gives him a look. A warning. Mickey starts to withdraw into the hallway, but he’s not quick enough. 

“Where the fuck you think you’re going?” 

“Bed.” 

Terry snorts. “After a long day’s fucking work, huh?” 

Mickey shrugs and starts to unwind his scarf from his neck. “Gotta do something.” 

“Working for a fucking whore. That’s what you’re doing. Running around holding your whore girlfriend’s purse while she fucks men for money. You’re a real fucking tough guy, aren’t you?” 

Mickey knows from experience that there’s no way out of this. He’s gonna end up taking some kind of hit. It’s just a matter of how much damage it leaves. 

“It’s a job, Pops.” 

“You’re a fucking embarrassment.” 

That cuts deeper than Mickey wants it to. Because it feels true. He feels like he’s failing. He feels like he’s letting fucking everyone down. But he just lets out his breath. 

“Sure.” 

“How much you’d pull down tonight? Huh? Empty your fucking pockets and show your old man how much it costs for you to just roll over while your lady sucks another man’s dick.” 

“We settle up on Sundays.”  
  
“Oh! You don’t even get your money ‘til the little lady decides to give it to you!” Terry nudges Iggy, who at least has the decency to look miserable. “How fucking civilized. You let her hold your balls for you, too?” 

“Ok,” Mickey announces. “Good talk. See ya.”

“Get the fuck back here!” 

Mickey casts his eyes back warily. 

“What’re you doing with all this money you’re making?” 

“I don’t know. Whatever the fuck you do with money.”  
  
“Well, you sure as shit haven’t been contributing around here.”  
  
“Helping with the drop-offs,” Mickey shoots back. “You don’t want me on runs, but I’ve been picking shit up, just like always. Sanding down those serial numbers. Getting shit sorted.” 

“Oh, and you gonna drop everything and go on a run with your brother if I tell you to? Or are you gonna tell me you can’t.” His father adopts a sneering, high-pitched voice. “Because your giiiiirlfriend needs you.” 

“Fucking try me.” 

Terry casts a hateful look at Mickey, who holds his ground.

“I’ll tell you what, Mick,” Terrydirects his attention back to the television. “You go get the money I know you got stashed in your room and you make a fucking contribution to this family. At fucking Christmas. You go do that now, I won’t tear your room up looking for it and whatever the fuck else you might be trying to hide from me.” 

His dad turns the volume up on the TV, letting Mickey know he’s dismissed. Mickey stares at him in fucking rage. Chews the inside of his lip while he contemplates just how hard it’d be to find a fucking gun in this house and just shoot his father in the back of the head. 

Then he wonders approximately how much time it’d take before one of his uncles showed up to avenge his dad. Fuck, for all he knew, Iggy might do it himself. 

Mickey storms off down the hall, still in his coat, eyes blurring with angry, frustrated tears. He pulls open his closet and pulls down a lockbox where he keeps a couple of guns, a box of bullets and a fucking thin envelope of cash. 

He has $800. In a month of working with Svetlana, that’s all he’s got. And his father is going to expect more, but what the fuck! They were just starting this thing. They were just figuring out what they could get paid and what worked best. It was just starting to come together. And $800 was _good_. It had fucking taken something to get this much. But it wasn’t anything close to what he needed to disappear with Ian. Not even fucking close. 

He wants to cry. He can feel it kicking in his chest. He wants to scream and he wants to break something and he wants to hit things. But instead, he takes $600, shoves the remaining cash in his back pocket, and marches back to the living room. He throws the cash on his father’s chest and grabs his scarf from the back of the chair. 

“$600,” his father looks up at him and smiles. “You’re a cheap bitch, ain’t ya?” 

“Fuck you,” Mickey snarls back and slams out the front door. 

*** 

He mugs some college kid coming off the L. He’s not armed, he’s a head shorter than the guy, and he doesn't even have to do anything but crowd him into a corner. Kid gives up his wallet with a look of terror and Mickey empties it of cash and tosses it back at his feet. “You’re fucking lucky,” he tells him. “Stay out of bad neighbourhoods.” 

It’s so easy that Mickey wonders why he stopped doing that shit. Fucking Gallagher. It wasn’t like he had an attack of conscience or anything -- it was just Ian and wanting to be near Ian. But whatever. He wants to get fucking destroyed tonight and he doesn’t want to spend his own money. So the $80 from college boy will have to do. 

And it makes him feel just the very tiniest bit better. Like he’s still alive in there. Like he was before he bonded. When no one would fuck with him. 

The Alibi is busy but Mickey snags a stool at the bar. He orders a shot and a beer to start and settles in. Even over the din of voices and people arguing at the pool table, he can still make out The Eagles crooning about how their baby’s gone and they’re all alone. 

“Holy Christ, this song is depressing.” 

Mickey ignores this observation. He hasn’t come for the fucking conversation. 

“Sorry, Fiona,” V sighs. “It’s either this or Elvis and if I hear Blue Christmas one more time, I’m gonna shoot myself in the head.” 

Mickey glances up in spite of himself. Ian’s sister is tucked away in the corner of the bar, about three feet from his stool. She’s halfway through a pint

“Isn’t there a Bruce Springsteen Christmas album?” 

“Nah, he’s just got some shit on compilations. DYLAN did a Christmas album, but it’s fucking weird.” 

“It’s like they’re all fucking conspiring. Mariah. Elvis. That new fucking Kelly Clarkson song -- they’re all about how much it sucks to be single at Christmas.” 

“You’re better off! I thought you were letting that shit go.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Fiona grins then takes a big gulp of her drink. “Letting it go by the second.”

“You’re gonna have a nice Christmas. You got some shit to celebrate!”

“Frank’s sick. Ian’s gone.” 

“Lip’s going to college. You have a new job--” 

“And I’m better off without him.” 

“I mean, you said it.” 

Fiona rolls her eyes and then glances in his direction before he can look away. Fuck. She looks surprised for a second, but then she smiles. And it looks fucking sincere. 

“Hey, Mickey.” 

Mickey nods. 

“Haven’t seen you around for a while.” 

“Didn’t know you were looking.” 

“I was a little bit.” 

Mickey nods, sucking on his bottom lip. He holds up his shot glass to V. “Can I get another one of these?” 

“What was it?” 

“Jäger.” 

V shrugs. “Sure thing.” 

“Not fucking around, huh?” Fiona observes. 

“Nope.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, I get it.” She glances at V down the bar, then leans over in his direction, lowering her voice. “You know Ian talked to me, right?” 

He did. Mickey hadn’t had it in him to figure out what the fuck to do with the information at the time, so he’d mostly ignored it. “Yeah. He told me.” 

“Just,” she sits back up as V returns and they exchange cash for his drink. “We’re missing him. You know?” 

“Dunno what you want me to do about that.” 

Fiona raises her eyebrows. “Nothing. Just thinking out loud.” 

She isn’t. And she’s talking in code, which at least suggests she understands how fucking uncomfortable this entire thing is for him. 

“But,” she continues, picking up her glass. “I know you were friends. So you probably hear from him, sometimes.” 

“Weren’t that close.” The corner of his mouth twitches and Mickey decides to be just a little bit less of a dick. It’s fucking Christmas. “But yeah. Sometimes. He lets me know he’s ok.”  
  
“Yeah,” she agrees. “Me, too. Sometimes.” She drowns the last third of her drink in one go and slams it down on the bar. “V, I’m gonna take off before Lip sends someone to track me down.” She hops off the stool. “Mickey. Any friend of Ian’s is a friend of ours. So Merry Christmas.” 

“Yeah,” Mickey picks up his shot. “Merry fucking Christmas.” 

***

He loses his will to drink himself into oblivion when he finds that, the drunker he gets, the more pathetic he feels. So he ends up wandering home earlier than he intended with a few bucks still in his pocket. But he takes his time. He doesn’t want to see his father again. 

He feels emasculated. Embarrassed and ashamed and like the worst fucking soulmate on earth. He knows he has reasons to keep the peace, but he’s had months to come up with some kind of solution and instead, he’s just stuck.  
  
He can’t shake the feeling. It follows him for days and weeks. He keeps picking up the phone to call Ian but he can’t. Because if he talks to Ian, he’s going to fall apart. So he doesn’t call. And neither does Ian. And on Christmas morning, when Ian texts to ask him how he’s doing he says “ok” instead of “drowning.” 

***

Christmas has been a drag for Mickey’s entire life. The big family gathering doesn’t happen until Epiphany, a whole two weeks later, but his mother wasn’t Orthodox and she used to try and do something for them on Christmas Day. It was always a disaster. His father was always angry. Mickey particularly remembers a bowl of nuts being hurled into the Christmas tree when he was about six. It smashed the bulbs and there was broken glass and scattered hazelnuts everywhere. He can remember presents being literally ripped out of his hands. And screaming -- his mother, mostly -- though Mickey really couldn’t blame her. But once SHE lost it, there was no hope left, and the day would descend into the kind of chaos that had a 50-50 shot of attracting the police. 

Laura Milkovich probably wasn’t a _great_ mom. Mickey suspects he’d miss her more if she had been. But she was still his mother and she was doing her best. He’s not sure he’s ever felt sorrier for her than he does this particular Christmas morning, remembering all her attempts at having some kind of traditional anything. Because he remembers not having clean clothes or a lunch to take to school. He remembers eating cereal out of the box with his bare hands because dinner never showed up. Regular life with four kids was beyond her grasp a lot of the time. But she tried at Christmas. She tried for years, even though it never worked out. He doesn’t know if it was stupidity, optimism or stubbornness. Whatever it was, he could use some of it right now. 

He doesn’t let himself think about her much. The memories aren’t exactly good, but a lot of them suggest that she loved him. He wonders what she’d think of this. In a world where she stayed with them longer, or one where she just didn’t die. He’d always known he couldn’t come out to his dad. But maybe he could have told his mom. Maybe she would have been ok with it. Maybe he’d be able to show her the picture he’s hidden on his phone and she’d just tell him Ian was cute and that would be the fucking end of it. 

It feels like a stretch, but he’s thinking about Fiona and her “any friend of Ian’s” bullshit. How it felt good, for a second, to hear something that sounded like acceptance. 

He has to get up. To the shock of fucking no one, a lot of people are willing to pay not to spend Christmas alone.

*** 

When you come from a culture that doesn’t throw down on December 25th, there is fuck all to do on Christmas Day, so for years, father’s hosted a poker game. When he shows up around four, having finished the first round of the day’s activities, it’s in full swing. Three uncles, six cousins, and his brother are set up at two tables. Mandy’s in her room with the door shut. There’s a bunch of cold cuts and sandwich makings out on the counter in the kitchen, along with a shit ton of booze. His father makes a point, as Mickey walks past, to let everyone know where the food came from.  
  
“Hey. Give a hand to my son here. He’s paying for these festivities.” 

He claps him on the shoulder and grins like a maniac while Mickey’s entire field of vision turns red. He ignores an invitation to join one of the games and instead grabs an Old Style out of a tub of ice and heads into the backyard. 

“Hey.” 

Fuck, fuck, fuck! Mickey turns on his cousin and snarls “What?” 

Jamie shrugs. “Outta money. Thought you might want to take a walk or some shit.” 

Mickey stares at him and he feels the rage ebb out of his body. He doesn’t have the fucking energy to be pissed at Jamie, too. It’s just too fucking much. 

“Knock yourself out, Baloo.” 

Jamie grins. “You haven’t called me that since we were kids!” 

He’d never meant it as a compliment, but Jamie is taking every fucking thing as encouragement these days. He zips up his parka and he and Mickey head out of the back gate into the alley. Mickey pauses to light up a cigarette and then starts walking East, setting a brisk pace. But his brisk pace is an amble to Gigantor, here. 

“So,” Jamie tries, after a few blocks. “Aaron Bond.” 

“Don’t wanna talk about it.” 

“Yeah. I know, but. That means you’re gay, right?” 

Mickey cuts his eyes over to give Jamie a lethal look. “Just because we’re cousins doesn’t mean I won’t cut your fucking tongue out if you give me a reason to.” 

“Ok,” Jamie nods. But then, great big dummy that he is, he continues. “But that’s what it means, right? Your soulmate’s a dude. So you’re at least a little bit fucking gay, right?” 

“What the FUCK are you talking about?” 

“Just. If you are. If you’re gay, that’s cool with me. I don’t give a fuck.” 

Mickey stares at him but he’s got so little fight left in him. He just takes an angry swig from his beer and finally spits out, “Fine. It’s like you and fucking whatsherface.” 

“Tina.” 

“Yeah. So.” He shifts his weight, eyes scanning the horizon like he’s on the lookout for an attack. “Same fucking thing. Just. With a guy.” 

“Ok,” Jamie beams like this fucking pleases him or something. “Ok, yeah. That’s what I thought. You’re fucked!” 

“Thanks.” 

“I mean, your dad. My dad’s an asshole and he hates Mexicans -- I mean, Tina’s Guatemalan, but--” 

“I swear to fucking God, Jamie.” 

“Terry’s worse. Everyone knows Terry’s worse. So I’m just thinking. If we can help each other, then we should.” 

“How the fuck are you going to help me?” 

“Dunno, exactly. But, like. I fucking hate being away from her, you know? And it felt good to tell you the truth. Look, Mickey. You’re smarter than me. You’re smarter than pretty much all of us. So maybe you see something I don’t. And I dunno. If I hear something. You’re never around anymore. You hardly ever at any of the shit we do” 

“Dad’s kinda boxed me out.” 

“Ok, so. If I hear something.”

“Yeah. Yeah, ok.” 

“I just. You gotta run, right? What the fuck else can you do?” 

Mickey shrugs. He might trust Jamie a little. But he doesn’t trust him that much. 

“Does anyone else know?” Jamie presses for all the gossip. 

“Mandy.” 

“Not Ig?”  
  
“Fuck no.” 

“Ok. And then your dad.”

“Fucking caught us together.” 

“Oh. Oh, shit.” 

“Yeah.” 

Jamie looks a little ill. “Fuck. I’m sorry.” 

“No one’s dead, Jamie.” Mickey stops at a street corner and at least deigns to have a face-to-face conversation. “I don’t know if you’re asking for something in writing or whatever, but if you’re just saying… Let’s look out for each other? Ok. Fine. Don’t think I have much to offer, but.” He shrugs. “I’ll do what I can.”

“Thanks, Mick.” Jamie awkwardly pushes at Mickey’s shoulder. “Fucking sappy, but mostly I just kinda miss you guys.” 

“Yeah, ok, ok.” Mickey takes one last drag, then tosses his cigarette. Somewhere, deep in his chest, he feels just a little warmer. 

***

Mickey works on New Year’s Eve. To the surprise of fucking no one. Svetlana’s on the job since there’s demand, so he ends up just sitting in the car, in a downtown Chicago parking lot, for hours. 

Around 10 he calls Jamie. “What’re you fucking up to?” 

“Watching Dick Clark.”  
  
“Isn’t he fucking dead?” 

“Yeah. But you know what I’m talking about, right?” 

“What the fuck ever. I’m stuck in a parking lot waiting for these assholes to get their rocks off. Wanna come keep me company?” 

Jamie chuckles. “No!” 

“Old times sake. You keep wanting to fucking talk and shit.” 

“We are talking.” 

Mickey cedes the point. He steps out of the car into the frigid night air and pulls out a joint. This and a couple of magazines are about all he has to pass the time. So he smokes a bit, then switches to tobacco while he and Jamie talk shit. Like really, just the stupidest stuff from their alleged childhoods. Mickey catches himself laughing a bit here and there. 

“How’re you fucking doing, Mick?” Jamie asks in a lull in the conversation. Mickey rolls his eyes and stares out towards the river. “Ok, I guess.” 

“Listen, this isn’t a big fucking deal or anything, but I feel like I should mention it to you…” 

Mickey tosses down his cigarette, his stomach telling him this is absolutely a big fucking deal. He yanks open the door to the car and gets inside. “Ok, fine. Hit me.” 

“Just. Your dad brought it up again the other night. I heard him and Ronnie talking.” 

“Brought what up?” 

“Talked about how you’re making money but you’re not spending it. And you have a girlfriend, but she never stays over. And he thinks you’re still in touch with your soulmate.” Jamie exhales. “I guess he either forgets I’m there, or he just thinks everyone is on his fucking side. I don’t know. I just… thought you should know.”

“Yeah,” Mickey rubs at his forehead. “Yeah, ok. Thanks.” 

He hurries Jamie off the phone after that and ends up standing outside the car, just staring into space. 

Holy fuck. 

He’s made so many fucking mistakes. 

***

**January**

***

Shit finally breaks up around three AM. With five fucking women to drop off at two addresses, he doesn’t get home until nearly four. The house is silent and Mickey heads straight to the bathroom. His head is spinning. Ever since he talked to Jamie, alarm bells have been going off full force. He doesn’t even try to sleep -- just brushes his teeth, splashes cold water on his face and then pulls out his stash of Xanax. 

It works, at least. He doesn’t wake up until around ten the next morning, though the hard terror from the night before is waiting for him. He thinks about how he has to talk to Svetlana. He has to do something about the money. But mostly he thinks about how he needs a fucking time machine because he’s been deeply sloppy. 

He reaches for his phone. There are a few text messages, but the thing that catches his eye first is the fact that there’s a voice mail. 

In 2014, someone has left him a voice mail. 

He opens the log and of fucking course it’s from “Ang.” He can’t believe he missed it, but it fucking figures. Svetlana had called him up to the hotel room at 11:30 to “join the party.” The clients were at least semi-regular and got it into their heads to bring Mickey in. Jovially had tried to engage him in conversation until they realized that there was a reason Mickey had this job and it wasn’t because he was great a small talk. 

Still. At midnight, they’d passed around the champagne and drunkenly sang Auld Lang Syne and right in the middle of that fucking chaos, Mickey’s phone must have been ringing in his pocket. 

There’s panting at the end of the line that seems to go on for fucking ever and Mickey is about to erase the call as a pocket dial that is going places he doesn’t want to know about when he finally gets to, “Hey.” 

Mickey’s throat tightens like a vice. He closes his eyes. 

“I just…” Ian’s voice, already trembling, cracks. “It’s New Years’,” Mickey listens to the shuddering breath his soulmate pulls in. “And I hope you’re having fun.”

Ian sounds weepy as fuck and Mickey can hear hard pulsing music in the background. He can’t imagine what fun Ian thinks he might get up to. What makes Ian think Mickey is EVER having any fucking fun?  
  
“I’m just… watching people kiss at midnight.”

There is a long pause. The music keeps thumping wherever Ian is. Mickey can hear his breathing. Finally, he gets a tight, “thinking about you,” and the call cuts. 

And that’s it. 

Mickey breathes in and out through his nose a few times as his voice mail prompts him to either erase or save the message. He finally saves, then listens to it an embarrassing number of times. Listens to the pain and the distress and the _love_ he hears in it. The soft, sad way that Ian tells him that he’s thinking about him. It cuts right through him. Makes his temples throb and his jaw ache.  
  
He waits until he feels like there’s a chance he’ll be able to speak without falling to fucking pieces. Then he calls him back. The second it starts to ring, Mickey is aware that he’s not ok. He’s not going to be able to hold it together. Ian is going to answer and Mickey is going to vomit all this heartbreak and pathos all over him. But he can’t make himself hang up. 

It goes to voicemail. He doesn’t leave a message. 

***

“What is problem? Is middle of the fucking night!” 

“It’s noon.” 

“Is middle of the fucking night,” Svetlana insists. “Who calls on New Year’s Day?” 

“I have a fucking problem with my dad. We gotta talk. Now.”  
  
Svetlana says something in Russian that Mickey assumes is not flattering.

“Fine,” she sighs. “You buy me breakfast. We talk.” 

*** 

Svetlana eats how she drinks -- with determination and remarkable efficiency. Mickey nurses the black coffee he knows is just helping his stomach gnaw through the rest of his vital organs. But he can’t eat. Something bad is coming. He can fucking feel it.

“You have idea who could replace you?” 

“That’s your first fucking concern?” 

Svetlana looks at him like he’s crazy. “Of course is first fucking concern. What are we? Friends?” 

Fine. Sure.  
  
“I have a cousin. I dunno. He seems to need money. He’s a good enough guy.” 

Mickey doesn’t mention that Jamie asked about freebies. He’s in love and shit, but who the fuck knows what that means when it comes to fidelity. 

Svetlana chews and considers. “Will slow down now. We make good money over Christmas, but now, people are broke. Less sad and desperate.” 

Mickey does not give a fuck. 

“Part of the deal was letting my dad think we’re fucking together,” Mickey reminds her. “And he doesn’t fucking buy it.” 

“What you want? I should blow you on front lawn where he can see?” 

“Fuck. No. Of course not.” He exhales. “But maybe you should stay over.” 

She shrugs. “Sure.” 

“Just… I don’t know. One night a week?” 

She raises her brow. “You pay?” 

“No, I don’t fucking--” 

What the fuck is he expecting, really? That Svetlana is going to do this out of the goodness of her heart? This is a mercenary operation. He knows that. 

“We made a deal,” he states again. “I haven’t asked you to do fucking anything. You can stay at my place at least once, ok? Just… I don’t know. Confuse him.” 

“You will hate it.” 

That’s true. 

Svetlana shakes her head. “Is better he thinks you stay with me.” 

“He knows you live with like four Russian prostitutes.” 

“Three,” Svetlana corrects. “How much money you have?” 

“I’m not fucking paying you!” 

Svetlana looks annoyed. “You will need to go. If this doesn’t work.” 

She’s right. And Mickey can’t fucking let his father rip him off again. He’s got to find a better place for his money. 

*** 

Fiona openly gapes at him when she opens the back door. “Holy shit.” 

“Hey,” Mickey holds up his lockbox. “Can you hold this for me?” 

“Ah. What is it?” 

He shrugs. “Just. Not important. I just need to make sure it’s somewhere safe.” 

“Is this about Ian?” 

Everything is about Ian. Jesus Christ. 

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s about Ian. Can you hold it? Put it somewhere no one can get to it.” 

“Sure,” Fiona looks uncertain. “Maybe… Under Ian’s bed?” 

“No,” Mickey shakes his head. “Not near the kids.” 

Fiona fully backs up at that. “What the fuck are you giving me here?” 

“Just -- FUCK!” Mickey pushes the box towards her. “Please.” He’s right back to fucking begging. It’s Amy from Dodge County all over again. “I need someplace where my dad can’t get to it. He doesn’t even know to come looking for it. But I don’t know where else to try.” 

“Ok,” Fiona nods, apparently moved by his naked desperation. “Ok. I’ll find a safe place for it.”

“Ok,” Mickey breathes, placated. Ian’s family’s not bad, really. Not that he’d admit that out loud. “Thank you.” He turns to leave and then remembers something. “Oh. And don’t tell Ian.” 

***

Chicago gets real fucking cold in January, and even though that happens every fucking year, it’s like the city stops for a little while. Mandy gets a job. At a fucking Waffle House. Mickey strategically tosses some money at his dad after New Years’, and then he watches Svetlana’s prediction come true. After three weeks of appointments fueled by either jubilation or epic loneliness, things slow to a crawl.  
  
He understands epic loneliness, but he feels his own harden, like it’s iced over, too. January goes by without another fucking incident. He doesn’t have as much to do, and he starts to get pulled into shit at home again. Iggy’s a little more friendly, after the money bullshit, which Mickey reads as pity, but he doesn’t care. He introduces Svetlana to Jamie and can tell she likes the way he looks -- though she privately tells Mickey that he has the personality of a cartoon squirrel. 

He starts driving with his cousin a little, suggesting maybe Jamie can fill in for him. Jamie’s into it. Talks his fucking ear off about immigration reform and how DACA means he can’t bring Tina into the country on a soulmate VISA because she’s already declared undocumented. Mickey listens, but he doesn’t have room to worry about Jamie’s problems, which just seem so much less lethal than his own. Jamie talks to Tina every day. He goes up to Kenosha every two weeks. If Mickey had the energy to be jealous, he’d be seething. 

But the company’s ok. He doesn’t hate that. They talk about a lot of other shit, too. Guns. Ammo. A lot of family gossip. They reminisce sometimes and tell each other stories about shit they were both there for. He makes Mickey laugh for the first time in months. And after nearly a full month of this shit, Mickey finally confesses. 

“You remember when Mandy told us that kid from school messed with her? And we spent days trying to find the fucker, but he was like the fucking wind?” 

“Jesus. Yeah,” Jamie chuckles, leaning back in the bucket seat of the SUV. “Didn’t we beat up his brother?” 

“Yeah. Didn’t do shit, though. And then, after a few days, Mandy was like ‘It’s ok. He’s my boyfriend now.’” 

“Holy shit,” Jamie shakes his head in amusement. “I fucking forgot about that. What the fuck! What was that kid’s name? McGuire?” 

“Gallagher.” 

“Gallagher. Right! The fucking Gallaghers.” 

Mickey smiles, running his fingers over his phone for lack of anything else to do. “That’s him,” he says, finally.

“That’s who?” 

Mickey looks at Jamie meaningfully but it still takes him a fucking minute. “Wait. Holy shit. THAT’S your soulmate? Wait, what was his name?” 

“Fuck you, that’s his name.” 

“Ian!” Jamie looks very pleased with himself. “Ian Gallagher is a dead man!” 

Not if Mickey has anything to say about it. 

****

Mickey feels warm talking _about_ Ian. He’s talking TO Ian less and less. Thinks about him, worries about him, but the connection has never been weaker. And maybe, he thinks, it’s better that way. Maybe it’s easier for them both. 

The conversations, when they happen, are weird. Ian is either tired or distracted. He usually seems eager to get off the phone. Texts are as fucking stilted as ever. Mickey doesn't know how to get past it. The worry overpowers fucking everything. He can’t stop his mind from spinning long enough to really focus on Ian. The actual fucking person he’s worried about. 

He knows a big part of the problem is that Mickey isn’t telling him that he’s scared. He doesn’t want Ian to know how he’s fucked up, or what he might have to do to get out of it. So when Ian seems listless on the phone, Mickey doesn’t do anything to try and counteract it. He just lets it be and hangs up feeling even lonelier than he was when he called. 

But he has the picture and he has the voice mail. He holds on to those. And they get him through. 

***

**February**

*** 

Mickey’s passed out on the couch in the late afternoon when he’s startled awake by his father crashing through the door. He frowns, lifting his head as his father swans into the room, high as a fucking kite. 

“What the fuck?” he mutters

“Mickey! My boy.” Terry crashes down into the armchair chair and grins at him. “Just the man I was looking for.” 

This is chemically induced, but it’s the nicest his father has been to him in months. He’d been a little more tolerant after Christmas was finally over. Satisfied with Mickey’s acknowledgement of his dominance, probably. But Mickey’s humiliation was too complete for him to try and use that opening to get back in Terry’s good graces. Instead, he started making a bigger show of being out in the evenings, pretending he was with Svetlana for reasons other than jobs. She slept over twice, but Mickey could feel the artifice of it. Having her around just make him feel like there was a neon sign over their heads -- THESE PEOPLE ARE NOT FUCKING. So they’d figured out a game with the Johns, where they’d rent the room to keep it off the married guys’ credit cards and then let them pay a higher rate in cash. The places they went, they were nice and the rooms were rented overnight, even if you were going home to a wife at ten. Mickey would just hang out in those rooms after he dropped Annika or Sasha or whoever the fuck off and returned the car. It was quiet, at least. He could stream porn on his phone and fondle his few Ian artifacts in peace. He’d started sleeping in Ian’s hoodie at home, but in the hotels, he’d curl up with it. Not, like, dress up a pillow or anything. But that felt like the next inevitable escalation. He didn’t even care about how crazy this was starting to look. He felt a bit better. The hoodie didn’t actually smell like Ian -- or even smell like the Gallagher laundry soap -- but having it reminded Mickey that Ian had given it to him. To help. 

Mickey is feeling numb to his father’s antics when they aren’t directly about his bond, and Jamie hasn’t had anything to report since he scared the fuck out of Mickey on New Year’s Eve. But his dad talking to him feels like a bad sign, anyway. 

“You look happy,” Mickey observes, rearranging himself on the couch so that he’s in a less prone position.  
  
“Ah. Scored some oxy. We’re gonna send it up to Kenosha with Jamie. Fucking ton of demand up there.” He laughs and wags his head back and forth. “Can see why. Shit’s great. Just fucks you up fast if you let it.” 

Terry wasn't wrong. Scarcity was a factor, but another reason Mickey had tried to stick to benzos when he got really fucked up about his bond was that he could see himself climbing into a bottle of hydrocodone and never coming out. His mother had a taste for opiates and it was probably what had killed her. Mickey wasn’t freaked out by much, but a regular supply of this shit could ruin his life. He was fucking convinced of that. 

“I got a hookup,” his father tells him, looking fucking proud of himself. “Gonna be a job. Think you’ll be good for it.” 

“Me?” 

“Yeah! You’ve always been good with sawed-off and a locked door.” 

Oh. That kind of job. It’s been a while since Mickey’s had to do something that involved possible cameras and shit. 

“We robbing pharmacies now?” 

“Nah. Middleman. Friend of a friend of your uncle’s clued us into some shit. It’ll be a big score. I want you in on it. Iggy too.” 

“Family affair.” 

“Iggy’s fast and he can follow directions if someone’s around who knows how his fucking mind works. You’re good at that.”

“Yeah.” That was just fucking true. Iggy was easily distracted but Mickey had mastered the art of keeping the asshole on course. 

“We got an inside man. Shouldn’t take much. Good job. We’ll make some coin.” 

Mickey nods and shifts on the couch. This is… a good thing? He feels uneasy, but on the face of it, his dad wanting him in something is good. His dad talking to him like he’s a human being is good. But Mickey greets every piece of news with a sense of creeping dread right now and this is no different. 

“Ok,” he says, lightly. Like there's any other answer he can reasonably give. “Sure. Let me know what you want.”

“Couple of weeks,” Terry nods, leaning back in the chair. “We’ll start planning. Couple of weeks.” 

Mickey’s got a lot of questions. First and foremost -- is he getting fucking paid for this? He’s gotta assume no. His father’s not interested in giving him that kind of freedom. But fuck. If he was… that could be the solution. It could be. 

“I know this shit’s not your fault.” 

Mickey’s snapped back to the here and now. “Yeah?” 

“You can’t help who your fucking soulmate is.” 

Oh. Fuck. 

“You know,” his father says, conversationally. “They used to burn Aaron Bonds alive. Not even that long ago! 19th fucking century, even. Probably still do it some places now.”

Mickey isn’t really interested in a history lesson in violent homophobia so he just nods, slightly. 

“So you’re lucky! Everyone’s so fucking enlightened now.” His father pats the arm of the chair affectionately. “You’re doing the right thing, Mickey. Too bad it’s been so fucking hard on you, but I guess you can’t help that, either.” 

“Guess not.” 

“But it’s ok,” Terry snorts and slides down in the chair, closing his eyes. “We’ll take care of ya. It’ll be ok.” 

Mickey watches his father until he starts to snore. 

*** 

Dread follows Mickey around for days. It gets in his way. He calls Ian, but he’s even more distracted than usual. Ian texts and Mickey barely registers them, leaving them on read. He lies in bed, awake in the wee hours of a Tuesday morning feeling the lack of his soulmate keenly, along with the guilt. He picks up his phone and brings up Ian’s picture. Gazes at it for whole minutes. Then he rubs his face and clicks over to his text messages. He hasn’t bothered to delete the string of barely returned blue messages from Ian out of penance -- but also because they don’t suggest that Ang is someone Mickey cares about a whole lot. He brings up the thread and types out the only thing he can think to say. 

_“Hey.”_

****

He calls Jamie around noon. That will strike him as weird, later -- that HE is the one to call Jamie. Just because he’s anxious, like fucking always, and Jamie’s become grounding. So he calls to ask if his cousin wants to come with him while he does a run. The response is enthusiastic, but the tone is weird. Mickey’s anxiety spikes.

But at this point, spiking is what his anxiety does so he tells himself to get a fucking grip. He picks up Sasha first -- she is the chattiest of all the girls he drives and it isn’t even fucking close. She sits in the back and talks to him at length about the weather and how it compares to where she grew up, which turns into a discussion of lip balm, something that Mickey knows nothing about, and Sasha doesn’t need his input on. When he pulls to the curb to let Jamie in, Sasha gives out a squeal and Mickey gets why she has more regulars than everyone else. She’s convincingly bubbly, whatever she might actually feel about any of this shit. He envies that. To be better at dividing up feelings. Compartmentalizing. Though who the fuck knows. Maybe Sasha’s actually happy. 

He doesn’t believe that, but it’s possible. 

Jamie’s happy to take over the conversation with Sasha, but Mickey can feel the tension coming off his cousin. Fuck. Something is going on. Something bad. He can only hope it’s going to turn out to be about Tina and DACA or some shit. 

He lets Jamie take Sasha up to the room while he parks the car. When he’s only got one appointment, he’s started to head back and wait at the hotel -- another plus of the fucking peacoat. It does help him blend. 

Jamie is waiting for him outside when he gets back and suggests they take a walk. Mickey wishes he were armed. He has to stop going around with nothing more than a pair of brass knuckles because this has a distinct Godfather vibe. 

“What’s up?” he asks, lighting up as they get some distance from the front of the hotel. Jamie digs his hands into his pockets, and hunches over. 

“Bad shit.” 

“How bad?” 

“Your dad tell you about this big job at the end of the month?” 

“Yeah. Told me he wants me on it.” 

Jamie looks grim. “Yeah. Well. Two things. First, we’re snaking our partners in Indiana on this shit. And they will be pissed if they find out.” 

Ok. Ok -- that’s some normal bad shit. Like, Jamie’s not wrong, but his dad does shit like that sometimes. It makes this whole thing a lot more dangerous because the Indiana guys are bikers and not to be fucked with. But the Milkoviches aren’t without cred themselves. It just has the potential to be a blood bath. 

“So you’re telling me I should try and bail.” 

“No,” Jamie stops grabs Mickey’s elbow, pulling him into an alley. “That’s the good news. It’s risky as fuck. And if it goes sideways, we’re either looking at some fucking retribution or we’re looking at jail time. And people are getting really fucking serious about this shit.” 

“Ok, I got you,” Mickey feels a little impatient. “But I don’t know what fucking choice I have--” 

“Mickey,” Jamie cuts him off, characteristically emphatic. “You don’t want to know why Uncle Terrys’ so fucking insistent we do this anyway?” 

“Fucking greed, I guess. He hates those Indiana motherfuckers, anyway.” 

“Mickey. No. It’s because it’s _enough_.” 

Mickey’s lips feel numb around his cigarette. “Enough.” 

“Enough to sever your bond.”

The ground vanishes from beneath Mickey’s feet. Stares at his cousin, who’s still talking, but he can’t hear words. Just the blood rushing to his head. 

“I can’t--” Mickey manages, finally. “I won’t.” 

“I don’t think they plan on giving you a choice, Mick. They’re not talking about doing it here. There are clinics in South America. Turkey. There are places where you pay a premium and you don’t have to deal with US bullshit. Like consent and shit. Mickey, they can force you. I think your dad’s crazy enough to do it.” 

“Holy fuck,” Mickey can hear how empty his own voice sounds. 

“You gotta go.” 

“He’ll find me.” 

“You’ve GOT to go! We’ll help you!” 

“Who the fuck is WE, Jamie? Who the fuck is going to HELP me?”

“I don’t know!” Jamie looks desperate, which he might find touching if he wasn’t melting the fuck down. “Look, I can lend you some cash I was saving for an immigration lawyer. I’ll need it back --” 

“Jamie,” Mickey reaches out and grabs the back of his cousin’s neck, forcing him to look him in the eye. “Jamie. I’d fucking die first.” 

Jamie nods. “I know,” he nearly whines. This is scary. This is just fucking terrifying. He knows Jamie feels it, too. “But we’ve got some time.” 

TIME? Mickey can’t even fathom it. There is no playing this cool. He can’t be in a room with his father right now. He will lose it. He will go for his jugular and end up in fucking jail. 

“Fuck time,” Mickey grabs for his phone. “We gotta do something now.” 

***

Jamie has saved $600, so he can only get Mickey to where he fucking was before his father’s temper tantrum. Mickey’s managed to save another grand, so that’s… fucking nothing. Not when it comes to travel and deposits and first month’s rent. Mickey is pacing Svetlana’s apartment, dialling Fiona fucking Gallagher for the third time in 40 minutes. 

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Fucking FUCK.” 

“You need to calm down.” 

“I need to get my fucking stuff is what I need,” Mickey snaps back at his business partner. 

“You act like this is happening tomorrow. But you have time. You need not to lose head. Here,” Svetlana gestures with her cigarette to a bottle of vodka on a side table. “Have drink.” 

“I don’t need a drink.” 

“I can give handjob,” Sasha offers. “Help you relax.” 

“Nah,” Jamie shakes his head, regretfully. “He’s gay.”

“Jamie! JESUS!” 

“Well, you are!” 

How the fuck is his family so fucking stupid and so fucking destructive at the same time? How is he at the fucking mercy of these people? Mickey turns his focus back on Svetlana. 

“We’re gonna need IDs. He’ll come looking for me. I know he will.” 

Svetlana agrees. “You can get fake ID.”  
  
“No,” Mickey’s patience is threadbare. “Not from someone I KNOW. I can’t pay enough to keep shit quiet. I gotta find someone my Dad doesn’t know shit about. Someone he won’t even go asking.” 

Svetlana nods. “I will think.” 

Mickey’s phone chimes and he looks down, hoping to fuck Fiona is getting back to him. 

It’s Ian. One word.  
  
_“Hey.”_

*******

“Mandy! Fucking finally.” 

“Yeah, I’m WORKING, Mickey. What the fuck?” 

“I need you to call Lip.” 

Mandy flat out laughs at him. “What? No.”  
  
“Mandy.” 

“I”m not fucking calling LIP for you.”

Mickey seethes, making wild gestures his sister thankfully can’t see. 

“I need something. Just tell him to have his sister fucking call me.”

“Call him yourself!” 

“I DON’T HAVE YOUR FUCKING EX-BOYFRIEND’S NUMBER!” 

“I’ll fucking send it to you, then! Jesus.” 

“Great. Fine. Fucking thank you!”

Mickey hangs up to find everyone in the room is staring at him in some kind of awe. 

“You’re losing your shit,” Svetlana observes. 

***

Jamie’s basically babysitting him. It’s fucking November all over again, with Mickey falling to pieces, and some random relative dragging him around on a piece of string. He drives Mickey past the Gallagher house to find no one fucking home. Seven god damn people in that family and the place is a total ghost town. 

“What’d you wanna do?” Jamie prompts.  
  
“Let’s go to my place. 

*** 

His dad is crashed out on the couch and snoring loudly when they come in the door. Mickey gives him a fleeting glance, then forces himself forward, Jamie at his heels. Fuck Terry. Eyes on the prize. 

In his room, Jamie sits on the bed while Mickey goes through the place like a man possessed. He takes inventory of the weapons at his disposal. He wants to take all of it. He goes through his clothes. Starts a load of laundry. Sorts through his box of coping strategies -- mostly pot, a few Ativan, a few Xanax.  
  
But he’ll have Ian, so will he even fucking need it? He tries not to let his mind rest there. But just that idea -- the memory of the first time he saw Ian after they bonded, how fucking good that felt. Would it be that way again? Ian, arms open, pulling Mickey into him. 

What if Ian doesn’t want him back?  
  
What if four months of bullshit has taught Ian he’s better off without him?  
  
Fuck that. No. Ian’s his soulmate. Mickey knows him. 

“Gotta drive Irina at 8, right?” Jamie nudges Mickey back into the here and now. 

“Yeah.”  
  
Yeah, ok. He’ll flip the laundry. He’ll go drive Irina. He’ll be home, what? Ten, 10:30. 

Maybe Fiona will have called him back by then. Maybe he can get a lead on a car. Maybe the plan will start to come together. 

Right before he gets into the car to go pick up Irina, Mickey opens his phone. Everyone he knows would advise against it, but he sends off a text.

_“Where are you?”_

***

Jamie comes with him. More babysitting, Mickey figures, but mostly Jamie talks and Mickey fails at holding a conversation. Eventually, he finds a topic he can focus on -- how Jamie can take over this job for him. What it would involve. How much money he can expect. 

“It’s not like you’re gonna go tomorrow,” Jamie points out again. “You could even wait ‘til the job is done.” 

Mickey mimics jerking off. “Fucking why? Make sure I have a bunch of bikers pissed at me first?” 

“I’m just saying, you got maybe a month before they’ll even have this figured out. Anything could happen.” 

“Yeah. Fucking anything. Exactly.” 

Mickey picks his phone up off the dash and notes the complete lack of messages from even ONE of the Gallaghers. He opens Ian’s thread again. 

_I’m serious. This is not a drill. Fucking call me._

***

The phone stays silent. He picks Irina up. Gets the money. Drops Jamie off. Drops Irina and the cash off with Svetlana. Returns the car. Gets fuck all from Lip, from Fiona, from Ian.  
  
Fuck them all. Fuck every single one of these fucking people. 

He doesn’t hurry home, the adrenaline that had fueled him through the afternoon having packed up and left. He’s trying to reason with himself about Ian. Ian’s fucking impossible to keep track of right now. Took him to the middle of the afternoon to return his last text. And maybe he’s pissed? Mickey’s been shit at getting back to him lately. Fucking piss poor time to pull that passive-aggressive shit, but hey. Maybe that’s it. Maybe it’s just stupid bullshit and it’ll all go away as soon as they talk. 

He’s fucking counting on that. 

The house is dark when he comes through the door, but he can see the light from the TV. Sure enough, Mandy is sitting on the couch, Kenyatta’s arm slung possessively around her shoulders. 

“Hey,” she mutes the TV when she sees him. “Lip came by.” 

“What’s he come by for? I texted that fucker hours ago.”  
  
“Yeah, Fiona almost killed Liam. So, like, he was probably distracted.” 

“What?” Mickey slumps against the door jamb, legitimately shocked. “Holy shit.” 

Kenyatta grunts and picks up the TV remote pointedly and unmutes the TV. Mickey’s been distracted and shit but he decides, right then, and that fucking hates this guy. 

“Come on,” Mickey nods towards his room. “Fill me in.” 

He’s jittery as he walks down the hall, looking for any sign of his father and Iggy. “Dad home?” he asks, as they come into his bedroom. 

“Dad’s gone,” Mandy tells him, flatly, as she pushes the door closed. “Cops came and got him an hour ago.” 

Mickey blinks. “You’re fucking with me.” 

“No. Failed his piss test. They literally just hauled him off in a fucking squad car.” 

Mickey cannot believe this Deus Ex Machina shit. It would be enough to make him believe in prayer, if he had stopped at any point that day and thought to ask God for a stay of execution.  
  
“So wait. Liam almost died AND Dad’s in jail.”  
  
“Yeah. And Lip wanted to know why you were asking him about Fiona so I don’t know what the fuck he thinks. Maybe that you gave her the coke?” 

“What COKE?” 

“Right. Yeah,” his sister leans back against the door. “Liam got into Fiona’s coke and he’s in the hospital. Lip came by to ask if I know how to find Ian, which I fucking don’t. And he said you texted him looking for Fiona, so he wanted to know what that might be about. And right before that, the cops showed up and took dad.” She puts up jazz hands. “And that’s what you missed on Glee.” 

Mickey drops onto the foot of his bed. “Fuck. Fuck.” He fishes in his coat pocket for his phone. Still completely silent. “Fuck!” 

“I think you gotta let Ian know about Liam. They don’t know how it’s gonna go and he’s gonna freak out if something happens and he didn’t even know.”  
  
“Texted him a few hours ago.” Mickey shakes his head. “I gotta go get him.” 

“How?”

“I dunno. I’ll go back, pick up the car. I gotta go get him.” 

“Do you know where he is?” 

“He’ll text back,” Mickey insists. “He’s… I dunno. I know he was in Wisconsin at some point. I know he’s in a city. He’s probably in the time zone. I’ll just go GET him.” 

Mandy gives him a wary look and Mickey feels his stomach sink. “Fucking what?” 

“Don’t freak out.”  
  
“Don’t. Don’t fucking do that to me.”

“Don’t freak out,” Mandy repeats. “You always freak the fuck out about this --”

“Why shouldn’t I freak the fuck out about?” 

“Ok.” She takes a breath. “I saw Ian a few months ago.”

“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?” 

“This qualifies as freaking the fuck out, Mickey!”  
  
“I GUESS THAT’S BECAUSE I’M FREAKING THE FUCK OUT! What the FUCK, Mandy?”

“He was in Chicago. He asked if I could keep a secret.” 

“So you SAW him? You fucking--” Mickey turns in a full circle of impotent outrage. “I have been fucking torturing myself to keep that asshole safe and you just went and SAW him?” 

“Dad wasn’t watching me the way he was watching you! And I don’t know. He sounded like he needed to see someone. I figured better it was me. Better me than Lip. You don’t know the Gallaghers like I do. They would have fucked it up. I figured I could go and get him to stay gone.” 

“How was he?” 

He sounds like a fucking child. Sad, and hurt and fucking furious all at once. Ian saw Mandy. Ian saw MANDY. 

“Like. I don’t know. Good and bad, I guess.” 

“What the fuck does that mean?” 

“Like.. he was excited and happy, but… Lonely, I guess.” 

Mickey’s heart squeezes painfully. 

“Do you know where he went?”  
  
“No. No, we haven't talked that much since shit went down with me and Lip.” 

Mickey lifts his head and looks at Mandy like she’s out of her fucking mind. Nope. Nope. Can’t do it. 

“I fucking knew it. I knew he was here. I fucking KNEW it.” 

Mandy looks honestly shocked. “What do you mean, you knew it?” 

“Where was he? He wasn’t in fucking Southside. I’d know about that.” 

“He was working up in Boystown.” 

The fucking Waffle House.  
  
“At a club?” 

“Yeah. But he was going to be moving on.”  
  
“You know which one?” 

Mandy shakes her head. “Just know he was dancing. That’s it.” 

***

Mickey doesn’t even have to change lines to get to Boystown. That’s how insane this is. It’s a straight shot on the red line and within half an hour of leaving, he’s walking up North Halstead with his stolen police badge, harassing doormen to let him in. 

He showered before he left. Shaved, which he’d gotten fucking sloppy about. Even used Kenyatta’s fucking perfumed soap because he feels sure that Ian’s going to be there. He’s felt it for months. In his gut, as much as he wanted to talk himself out of it, he’s known that Ian was in Chicago. And working at a club fits the weird hours and the fitful text conversations too well for it to have changed. He can’t ask around much -- tries with some doormen -- but everyone lets him in easy enough and there aren’t THAT many full-on dance clubs. 

Well. Ok. There are a lot of clubs, all things considered, and even the bars seem to have some dancing. But he goes through them systematically. Doesn’t try to guess. Doesn’t avoid the leather bar just because he has a fucking opinion about the likelihood. He just moves, and looks around and sees so many sequins, and feathers and rainbows that he starts to doubt his ability to identify any individual people. 

And then he hits the Fairy Tail and he immediately knows. The second he comes into the main bar, he can feel him.

And holy fuck. It takes his breath away. It’s not even that specific -- a little bored, a little tired, a little sad, even. But it’s there before he even raises his eyes to the stage and sees him. The red hair, the pale skin, in fucking sparkly booty shorts and black combat boots.

Ian. 

Ian is beautiful. 

***

It takes a minute. After his awkward wave and effort to suggest that maybe his soulmate could take a second and come talk to him, Ian’s dancing slows, off-beat and confused. But then he seems to right himself. For a second, Mickey thinks he’s just going to keep going like nothing happened. Then Ian meets his eyes and nods towards the corner, directing Mickey to wait under a catwalk that runs opposite the bar. 

Ok. Fine. This is fine. The read is full of distress and worry, but Mickey can make sense of that. Ian’s probably expecting him to be upset about the fact that he’s not even half an hour away by public fucking transit, and that’s fair.  
  
But he has to know Mickey can’t muster up the rage. He’s too overwhelmed with relief and fucking joy at seeing Ian again. Ian has to KNOW that. He’s got to be able to feel it. 

Well. He should have. Now he’s probably just reading Mickey’s anxiety and impatience. 

It takes a few minutes, but Ian hops off the stage, glances around, and then makes a beeline for him. Mickey can’t help but feel his heart lift. Can’t help but smile. Because he looks good. Thinner, maybe. Black shit around his eyes, just like in the picture. But definitely alive. Definitely still Ian. 

“Hey,” Ian sounds almost breathless when he reaches him. 

“Hey.” 

And they stare at each other. Like middle schoolers at a fucking dance. Finally, almost without deciding to do so, Mickey reaches out to touch Ian’s hand, and he steps back, shying away. 

“Ian.” 

“What are you doing here?” 

“Looking for you. What the fuck else would I be doing here?” 

“Is everything ok?” 

Fair question and the answer isn’t great, so MIckey shifts his weight. “Ah. Kinda. We should talk.” 

Ian nods. “I’m off at one.”

Somehow being put off ‘til quitting time, even if it is just half an hour away, is not what Mickey fucking expected. And Ian must know he’s fucking hurt, but he doesn’t seem to register anything in response. Just more of that fear.  
  
“Yeah. Ok. I guess I’ll come back at one.” 

“Wait outside,” Ian says too quickly. “I’ll meet you out front. It’s slow. Maybe I can leave a little early.” 

That’s something, but it still feels weird as fuck. He barely restrains himself from complaining about being sent off to twiddle his fucking thumbs after five fucking MONTHS, but what the fuck ever. 

“Sure,” Mickey starts, already turning away when Ian cuts him off.

“Mickey!” 

“What?” 

He doesn’t succeed in keeping the frustration out of his voice -- and he’s so rusty at this soulmate shit that it doesn’t occur to him that there’s no POINT in trying to -- but then Ian is on him. Reaching out, hands on Mickey’s waist, pulling him in. Ian presses his forehead against Mickey’s and lets out a tiny sound of distress. He’s shaking, a little bit. _Trembling_ , even. Mickey closes his eyes and puts his hand on the back of Ian’s neck. Concern wars with the relief that comes with being close to him. The incredible feeling of having your soulmate touch you. 

“Hey. It’s ok,” he murmurs. “I fucking promise. It’s ok.” 

He feels Ian nod. He doesn’t feel fear now, but he can’t put a name on what is coming at him. Just a lot of everything. Overwhelm. He realizes how little Ian saw this coming.  
  
“Everything ok here, Curtis?” 

Ian jumps back and turns away from Mickey, ducking his head. “Everything’s great, Roger.” 

His voice sounds unnatural and Mickey tries to step back into the shadows. 

“You heading back to your post?” 

“Yep,” Ian-slash-Curtis confirms. “Right now.” 

He tosses Mickey a quick but meaningful look. Mickey can’t help but smile, even as Ian walks away. Shit is fucked up. But Ian is still his. 

*** 

The temperature is starting to drop again, so Mickey folds over the top flap on his peacoat, and fastens the top button. He honestly regrets wearing it. He’s regretting every single thing that might make Ian feel like something’s off. Different. He doesn’t know what’s going on and that’s fucking unsettling. But he feels -- for the first time in five fucking months -- like he might not be the most fucked up guy in the room. It helps him focus.

He leans against the building, lights up a cigarette, and checks his phone for the time. 12:47. Could be fucking worse. 

“Hey. I couldn’t bother you for a cigarette, could I?” 

Mickey looks up warily. A smiley, elfin man is standing in front of him. Face friendly and open, dressed in his own peacoat, with a much nicer scarf. Mickey frowns, then decides it doesn’t fucking matter. He’s just killing time, anyway. 

“Sure,” he sighs, fishing the pack out of his pocket. “Go for it.” 

“Thank you,” the man gingerly takes the pack from him and pulls out the cigarette like it’s of the utmost importance that he only touch the one he plans to smoke. “Can I bother you for a light?” 

Mickey openly eyes him with annoyance but passes his lighter over all the same. It’s only when he is about to drop it in his hand that it occurs to him that he might be getting hit on. 

“I”m not--” he pulls his hand back. “I’m waiting for someone. I’m not fucking looking for anything.” 

“Oh!” The man puts his hands up. “Oh, no, no. Don’t worry, you’re a little young for me.” 

“Ok,” Mickey gives him the lighter. “Cool.” 

He wouldn’t call this guy a seasoned smoker, given that trouble he seems to have lighting up, but once he’s got it going and he hands the lighter back with a smile, he takes a drag with some degree of ease.  
  
“It’s been a while,” he confirms off Mickey’s look. “I used to smoke a little in undergrad. Sometimes I still crave one after a few drinks.” 

“Knock yourself out.” 

“Also,” the man tips towards Mickey a little. “I wanted to ask you a question.” The hand goes back up. “No ulterior motives. I just… Your name isn’t Mickey, is it?” 

Mickey’s head snaps back. “Who the fuck are you?” 

The man switches the cigarette to his other hand and is moving as if to offer it to shake when the door to the club swings open, and the loud music spills out into the street, along with a frantic looking Ian. 

“Mickey,” he practically gasps. He looks wildly under-dressed with his open parka tossed over a green tank top. “Hey.”  
  
“You’re not off yet,” Mickey frowns. Ian shakes his head. 

“I told them I had to go. Family emergency,” he glances at the elfin dude. “Hi, Ryan.” 

Who the fuck is Ryan?

“I was just introducing myself,” Ryan clarifies as Ian moves straight past him to very nearly collapse into Mickey’s arms. Mickey nearly stumbles, not entirely prepared for how much of his soulmate’s weight has just landed on him. 

“Hey,” he tries to soothe as Ian buries his face against his neck. “Ian. It’s ok.” 

“I can’t feel you.” 

“What?” he tries to jostle him a little. “What do you mean you can’t feel me?” 

“I can’t.”  
  
“Ian.” It’s fucking Legolas again. “Did you maybe take something tonight?”

“Hey, dude?” MIckey snaps. “I don’t know who the fuck you are.”

“Ryan’s one of my regulars,” Ian finally turns his face away from MIckey’s neck. “I took something. Don’t know what.” 

“That’s probably it,” Ryan says, in that same friendly tone he’s had since he first started talking to Mickey. “Because you can feel him, right Mickey?” 

“Yeah,” Mickey says, slowly. “I can feel you, Ian. I feel you just fine.”

This tones the noise down a little. Ian’s uncertain, but there’s a little relief. He shifts his weight back onto his feet, though he’s still pressed against Mickey. “It can do that?” 

“Club drugs do all kinds of things. Look,” Ryan looks at Mickey as he speaks. “I don’t know if this is something you need right now, but if you two could use some neutral space, I’m on my way home. I’d be happy to give you a place to sleep and maybe talk a little. If you need one.” 

Is this guy for fucking real? Mickey turns to Ian to ask as much, but Ian’s minor relief is shifting into something more significant.  
  
“Yeah,” he answers for both of them. “Yeah, that would be good.”

And what’s Mickey going to do? Fight with his messy, drugged-out, shivering soulmate? In front of fucking _Ryan_? Who Mickey is very fucking sure he could take without dropping his cigarette. He brings a hand up to rub Ian’s back. 

“Sure. Why the fuck not.” 

“Great,” Ryan looks fucking delighted. “I’ll call us an Uber.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: This amounts to Terry being terrible. He is physically violent at one point, but he’s mostly sticking to name-calling and humiliation. There is homophobic and misogynistic language. Also lots of references to recreational drug use and sex work. 
> 
> \-- We must pity Mickey that it’s 2014 and McDonald’s didn’t have all-day breakfast yet because he’s basically hungover for 75% of this chapter and he never gets to treat it as God intended. 
> 
> \-- Big sad balloon man: Svetlana is talking about Big Hero Six, which she has not seen because it is not out yet. But she’s seen the teaser trailer where he’s slowly deflating, so. It feels apt to her. 
> 
> \-- Jamie is kinda an amalgam of Mickey’s giant cousins from season one and the guy who they’re calling Jamie in 10x12. 
> 
> \-- For the interested, someone on Tumblr asked me about Mickey & Ian's first kiss in this story, so I answered here: https://dreamylyfe-x.tumblr.com/post/642877968427925504/ive-been-re-reading-bound-and-it-made-me-wonder
> 
> \-- Sincerely. I will try very hard not to make you guys wait this long again. 
> 
> **Next: Chapter Ten: Extreme Empathy** \-- Mickey and Ian try to figure out exactly what their next step is. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Come find me at [Tumblr](https://dreamylyfe-x.tumblr.com/) if you’re into that kind of thing.


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